UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  Dlt60 


ELEANTORE  M.  JEWETT 


A  MANUAL  OF 
MYSTIC  VERSE 

BEING  A  CHOICE  OF 
MEDITATIVE  AND  MYSTIC 
POEMS  MADE  AND  ANNOTATED 

BY 

LOUISE  COLLIER  WELLCOX 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  6r  COMPANY 

68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  igio,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 
Copyright,  1917,  by  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


^rfnted  (n  the  United  States  of  Hmerica 


TO 

WESTMORE    WILLCOX,   JR. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFACE xv 

THIRTEENTH  CENTURY 

MARY  AT  THE  CROSS I 

I  SYKE  WHEN  I  SING 4 

WINTER  SONG 7 

A  SONG  TO  THE  VIRGIN 7 

FIFTEENTH  CENTURY 

SHEPHERD'S  SONG 9 

CAROL  OF  THE  VIRGIN IO 

THE  KING'S  SON II 

THE  VIRGIN'S  SON 12 

THE  BEST  SONG 13 

A  MIRACULOUS  MATTER 14 

RICHARD  DE  CASTRE 

PRAYER  OF  RICHARD  DE  CASTRE l6 

WILLIAM  DUNBAR  (1450?) 

ON  THE  NATIVITY  OF  CHRIST l8 

EDMUND  SPENSER  (1552) 

EASTER 21 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH  (1552) 

TIME'S  GIFTS 21 

PILGRIMAGE 22 

THB    LIE 23 

SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT  (1553) 

IN  DESOLATION 26 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554) 

SONNET aS 


CONTENTS 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL  (1561?)  PAGE 

THE  BURNING  BABE 2Q 

NEW  PRINCE,  NEW  POMPE 30 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  (1564) 

THE  WASTE  OF  SHAME 3» 

THE  REMEDY 32 

THOMAS  CAMPION  (1566?) 

INVOCATION 33 

THE  MAN  OF  LIFE  UPRIGHT 34 

SIR  HENRY  WOTTON  (1568) 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 35 

JOHN  DONNE  (1373) 

A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHER 36 

TO    DEATH 37 

A  HYMNE  TO  CHRIST,  AT  THE  AUTHOR'S  LAST  GOING 

INTO  GERMANY 38 

PHINEAS  FLETCHER  (1584) 

AN    HYMNE 40 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND  (1583) 

SOUL,  WHICH  TO  HELL  WAST  THRALL 40 

WORLD'S  BEAUTY 41 

THE  LAST  HOPE 41 

ROBERT  HERRICK  (1591) 

AN  ODE  TO  GOD 42 

HIS  LETANIE,  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT 43 

GRACE  FOR  A  CHILD 45 

TO  KEEP  A  TRUE  LENT 46 

HENRY  KING  (1591) 

A  CONTEMPLATION  UPON  FLOWERS 47 

FRANCIS  QUARLES  (1592) 

RESPICE  FINEM 48 

FALSE  WORLD 48 

A  DIVINE  RAPTURE SO 

THE    POYL 52 

vi 


CONTENTS 


GEORGE  HERBERT  (1593)  PAGE 

EASTER S3 

THE    COLLAR S3 

THE    PULLEY SS 

DISCIPLINE 56 

LOVE ....  57 

THE    ELIXIR ....  58 

MAN 59 

FRAILTIE ....  62 

NATURE ....  63 

F.  B.  P.  (POEM  PUBLISHED  1601) 

URBS    BEATA    HIERUSALEM 64 

A.  W.  (POEM  PUBLISHED  1602) 

THOUGH  LATE,  MY  HEART 68 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY 

THE  HEART'S  CHAMBERS 70 

A  HEAVENLIE  VISITOR 71 

JOHN  MILTON  (1608) 

HYMN  ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY  .     .  72 

JEREMY  TAYLOR  (1613) 

THE    PRAYER 8l 

A  HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS-DAY 82 

RICHARD  CRASHAW  (1613) 

THE  FLAMING  HEART 84 

HENRY  MORE  (1614) 

CHARITY  AND  HUMILITY 88 

JOSEPH  BEAUMONT  (1616) 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  MIND 90 

HENRY  VAUGHAN  (1622) 

CHILDHOOD     ...                              91 

PEACE 93 

THE   RETREAT 94 

THE    NIGHT 95 

vii 


CONTENTS 


HBNRY  VAUGHAN  (1622) — Continued.  PAGE 

THE    WORLD 97 

MAN 100 

i  WALK'D  THE  OTHER  DAY,  TO  SPEND  MY  HOUR     .     .  loa 

THB  WORLD  OF  LIGHT 104 

JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631) 

VENI  CREATOR  SPIRITUS Io6 

THOMAS  TRAHERNE  (1636) 

WONDER 108 

THE    APPROACH Ill 

THE    CIRCULATION 113 

DESIRE Il6 

GOODNESS 119 

JOHN  NORRIS  (1657) 

THB  ASPIRATION 121 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  (1657) 

THE  SOUL  WHEREIN  GOD  DWELLS 123 

JOHN  BYROM  (1692) 

MY  SPIRIT  LONGETH  FOR  THEE 124 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  (175?) 

THE  GATES  OF  PARADISE  . 
THE  KEYS  OP  THE  GATES 


THE  GOLDEN  STRING 
THE  LAMB.  .  .  . 
THE  TYGER 


POISON    TREE 


30 


ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW    ..........     131 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  (177°) 

THE  RAINBOW     .............  132 

IN  EARLY  SPRING    ............  133 

ODE  TO  DUTY      .....  ....  134 

ODE  —  INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY   FROM   RECOL- 

LECTIONS OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD  .......  136 

viii 


CONTENTS 


JOHN  KEBLE  (1790)  PAGE 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  DARLING 144 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  (1792) 

DEATH 147 

EPILOGUE  TO  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 148 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  (1794) 

THANATOPSIS 149 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  (1803) 

THE  SPHINX 152 

BRAHMA 157 

DAYS 158 

RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH  (1807) 

THE  KINGDOM  OP  GOD 159 

NOT  THOU,  PROM  US! 160 

FREDERICK  TENNYSON  (1807) 

THE    GLORY    OF    NATURE l6t 

ALFRED  TENNYSON  (1809) 

WAGES 163 

BROKEN    LIGHTS 163 

LAST    LINES 165 

CROSSING    THE    BAR l66 

JOHN  GREENLEAP  WHITTIER  (1809) 

THE  WAITING 167 

INVOCATION 168 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  (1809) 

THE    CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS l6g 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING  (1809) 

CONSOLATION 171 

THE  SLEEP 173 

ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812) 

PROSPICE 174 

EPILOGUE 175 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 176 

ix 


CONTENTS 


AUBREY  DE  VERB  (1814)  PAGE 

MAY  CAROLS 185 

THOMAS  TOKE  LYNCH  (1818) 

REST 187 

MODULATIONS IQO 

WALT  WHITMAN  (1819) 

DEATH  CAROL IQ2 

GODS IQ4 

CHANTING  THE  SQUARE  DEIFIC      .......  195 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH  (1819) 

HELP 199 

SURETY 2OO 

GEORGE  ELIOT  (1819) 

"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE" 2OO 

EMILY  BRONTE  (1819) 

LAST  LINES 2O2 

THE  PRISONER 204 

DORA  GREENWELL  (1821) 

THE  SEARCH 206 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822) 

EAST  LONDON 206 

THE  BETTER  PART 207 

STAGIRIUS 208 

IMMORTALITY 2IO 

COVENTRY  PATMORE  (1823) 

THE    TOYS 211 

VICTORY  IN  DEFEAT 213 

VESICA  PISCIS 215 

GEORGE  MACDONALD  (1824) 

REST 215 

A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL 2l6 

THAT    HOLY    THING 21? 


CONTENTS 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  (1828)  PAGE 

MEN    AND    MAN 2l8 

SENSE  AND  SPIRIT 2IQ 

LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 22O 

A  BALLAD  OF  PAST  MERIDIAN        22O 

THE  QUESTION  WHITHER 221 

OUTER  AND  INNER 222 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  (1828) 

WORLD'S  WORTH 224 

VAIN  VIRTUES 225 

LOST  DAYS 226 

A  SUPERSCRIPTION 227 

THE  HEART  OP  THE  NIGHT 227 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  (1830) 

OLD  AND  NEW  YEAR  DITTIES 228 

UP-HILL 229 

THE    WORLD 230 

SLEEPING    AT    LAST 231 

T.  E.  BROWN  (1830) 

INDWELLING 232 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE  (1837) 

HERTHA 232 

THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON 

NATURA  BENIGNA 243 

JOAQUIN  MILLER  (1841) 

COLUMBUS 243 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL  (1841) 

A    PRAYER 244 

"  QUEM   METUI    MORITURA  ?" 245 

MINOT  J.  SAVAGE  (1841) 

MY    BIRTH 246 

EDWARD  DOWDEN  (1843) 

SEEKING  GOD 248 

xi 


CONTENTS 


FREDERICK  W.  H.  MYERS  (1843)  PAGE 

SUNRISE 249 

GERARD  HOPKINS  (1844) 

THE    DEBT 250 

THE  HABIT  OF  PERFECTION 251 

GOD'S  GRANDEUR 252 

ROBERT  BRIDGES  (1844) 

FORTITUDE .     253 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  (1848) 

THB  HAPPIEST  HEART 254 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  (1849) 

INVICTUS 254 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  (1850) 

IF    THIS    WERE    FAITH 255 

HERBERT  E.  CLARKE  (1852) 

LIFE  AND  DEATH 257 

ALICE  MEYNELL  (1855) 

MEDITATION 258 

"i  AM  THE  WAY" 259 

"WHY    WILT    THOU    CHIDE?" 260 

R.  D.  B. 

DOMINUS  ILLUMINATIO  MEA 260 

WILLIAM  WATSON  (1858) 

THE    MYSTIC    BURDEN z6l 

H.  C.  BEECHING  (1859) 

PRAYERS 263 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON  (1860) 

THE  HOUND  OP  HEAVEN 264 

IN  NO  STRANGE  LAND 271 

xii 


CONTENTS 


LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY  (1861)  PAGE 

THE  KINGS 272 

DEO  OPTIMO  MAXIMO 274 

LIONEL  JOHNSON  (1864) 

THE  PRECEPT  OF  SILENCE 275 

MY  OWN  FATE 2?S 

A  BURDEN  OF  EASTER  VIGIL 276 

A.  E.  (GEORGE  RUSSELL,  1866) 

IMMORTALITY 277 

ANSWER 278 

RECONCILIATION 279 

PHILIP  HENRY  SAVAGE  (1868) 

INFINITY 280 

ANNE  REEVE  ALDRICH  (1866) 

DEATH  AND  DAYBREAK 280 

FREDERICK  HERBERT  TRENCH  (18 — ?) 

A    CHARGE                 281 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND 
EDITION 

IN  bringing  out  a  second  edition  of  this  mystic 
anthology  under  a  new  title,  I  feel  that  some  explana- 
tion is  required. 

The  original  title,  A  Manual  of  Spiritual  Fortifi- 
cation, was  a  stumbling  block  to  many  critics  and 
readers.  They  objected  to  it  on  the  score  of  its  poly- 
syllabic words  and  its  length.  Under  the  new  title, 
however,  I  find  that  I  must  explain  that  I  believe 
that  the  fortification  of  the  spirit  by  means  of  such 
poems  as  Henley's  Invictus,  Trench's  A  Charge,  Louise 
Imogen  Guiney's  The  Kings,  Bridges'  Fortitude,  is  one 
step  in  the  spirit's  ascent  toward  the  mystic  con- 
sciousness. 

Seven  years,  the  distance  between  the  date  of  the 
first  and  the  second  editions,  is  ample  time  for  men- 
tal growth  and  there  are  many  changes  that  I  should 
like  to  have  made.  There  are  omissions  among  the 
earlier  poems  that  I  only  became  aware  of  too  late. 
The  kind  guidance  of  Miss  Vida  Scudder  and  Mrs. 
Mount-Stuart  (Evelyn  Underhill)  pointed  out  sev- 
eral of  these  to  me. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

There  are  many  changes  of  feeling  as  to  the  more 
modern  poems;  notably  at  the  time  of  the  earlier 
edition,  Evelyn  Underhill's  beautiful  volume  of  verse, 
Immanence,  was  not  yet  published  and  so  none  of 
these  could  be  included. 

Should  this  little  volume  in  its  present  form  prove 
to  fill  any  need  of  the  great  sorrowing  public  of  to- 
day, stretching  up  yearning  hands  to  some  larger 
and  braver  vision  of  the  mystic  consciousness,  a  third 
and  corrected  edition,  more  to  the  author's  mind, 
may  yet  be  made. 

LOUISE  COLLIER  WILLCOX. 

June,  1917. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

THE  demands  made  in  such  a  work  as  this  upon 
the  generosity  of  authors  and  publishers  are  many, 
and  the  editor  desires  herewith  to  make  grateful 
acknowledgment  of  her  indebtedness.  Her  thanks 
are  due  to  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for 
the  poems  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  John  G.  Whit- 
tier,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  E.  R.  Sill,  Miss  Louise 
Imogen  Guiney ,  and  one  by  Mr.  John  Vance  Cheney; 
to  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  poems  by 
George  Meredith  from  the  volume  entitled  George 
Meredith's  Poems,  and  for  the  poem  "  If  This 
Were  Faith,"  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  from 
Poems  and  Ballads;  to  the  Macmillan  Company, 
London,  for  T.  E.  Brown's  "Indwelling";  to 
Mr.  Watts-Dunton  and  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus 
for  A.  C.  Swinburne's  "Hertha";  to  the  Rev. 
Minot  J.  Savage  and  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
for  "My  Birth,"  from  Poems  by  M.  J.  Savage;  to 
the  Rev.  Minot  J.  Savage  and  Messrs.  Small, 
Maynard  &  Company  for  Philip  Henry  Savage's 
"Infinity";  to  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Com- 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


pany  and  Mrs.  Myers  for  F.  W.  H.  Myers's 
"  Sunrise,"  from  Fragments  of  Prose  and  Poetry;  to 
Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Company  and  to  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges  for  his  poem,  "Fortitude";  to  Mr.  John 
Vance  Cheney  for  his  "  Happiest  Heart,"  from  the 
volume  entitled  Poems;  to  Mrs.  Alice  Meynell  for 
the  three  selections  from  her  Poems  and  Later 
Poems;  to  Mr.  Wilfred  Meynell  for  Francis  Thomp- 
son's "Hound  of  Heaven"  and  "In  No  Strange 
Land";  to  the  John  Lane  Company,  New  York, 
and  to  Mr.  William  Watson  for  the  poem  here  en- 
titled "The  Mystic  Burden,"  from  Odes  and  Other 
Poems;  to  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Mosher  and  Mr.  George 
Russell  for  "Answer"  and  "Immortality,"  from 
the  Earth-Breath  and  Other  Poems;  to  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  Miss  Anne  Reeve  Al- 
drich's  "  Death  at  Daybreak,"  from  Songs  About 
Life,  Love,  and  Death;  to  Messrs.  Methuen  &  Com- 
pany, London,  the  John  Lane  Company,  and  Mr. 
Herbert  Trench  for  "A  Charge";  to  Messrs. 
Whitaker  and  Ray-Wiggin  Company,  of  California, 
for  Joaquin  Miller's  "Columbus,"  from  Volume  I 
of  the  six- volume  edition  of  Joaquin  Miller's  Poems; 
to  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews,  of  London,  for  Lionel 
Johnson's  "Precept  of  Silence,"  "A  Burden  of 
Easter  Vigil,"  "  My  Own  Fate";  to  Messrs.  James 
Clarke  &  Company  for  Thomas  Toke  Lynch 's 
"Rest"  and  "Modulations";  to  the  Rev.  Canon 
H.  C.  Beeching  for  his  "Prayers";  to  the  Mac- 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

millan  Company,  New  York,  and  Mr.  George 
Russell  for  "Reconciliation;"  from  The  Divine 
Vision  by  A.  E.;  to  Mr.  Theodore  Watts-Dunton 
for  his  sonnet  "  Natura  Benigna,"  from  The  Coming 
of  Love;  to  Mr.  Edward  Dowden  for  his  poem  "  Seek- 
ing God";  to  Mrs.  Kate  Hopkins  for  the  poems  by 
Gerard  Hopkins;  to  Mr.  Horace  Traubel  for  poems  by 
Walt  Whitman;  to  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
for  W.  E.  Henley's  "Invictus";  to  Miss  Guiney 
for  her  poems;  to  Mr.  Bertram  Dobell  for  Thomas 
Traherne's  poems. 

In  closing  this  list  the  editor  desires  to  express 
her  sense  of  the  uniform  courtesy  extended  her, 
and  hopes  she  may  not  inadvertently  have  over- 
looked any  acknowledgments  or  unwittingly  tres- 
passed on  any  one's  rights. 


A   MANUAL   OF 
SPIRITUAL   FORTIFICATION 


A    MANUAL    OF 
SPIRITUAL    FORTIFICATION 

MARY   AT  THE   CROSS 

"Stond  well,  mother,  under  rood; 
Behold  thy  Son  with  glad£  mood; 

Blythe,  mother,  mayst  thou  be." 
"Son,  how  shall  I  blith6  stand? 
I  see  Thy  feet,  I  see  Thine  hand 

Nailed  to  the  hard  tree." 


"Mother,  do  way  thy  wepynde: 
I  tho!6  death  for  mankind — 

For  My  guilt  thole  I  none." 
"Son,  I  feel  the  dede  stounde; 
The  sword  is  at  mine  hert6  grounde 

That  me  byhet  Simeon." 


THIRTEENTH    CENTURY 

"Mother,  mercy!  let  Me  die, 
For  Adam  out  of  hell  buy, 

And  his  kin  that  is  forlore." 
"Son,  what  shall  me  to  rede? 
My  pain  paineth  me  to  dede: 

Let  me  die  Thee  before!" 

"Mother,  thou  rue  all  of  thy  bairn; 
Thou  wash  away  the  bloody  tern; 

It  doth  Me  worse  than  My  ded." 
"Son,  how  I  ter6s  werne? 
I  see  the  bloody  streames  erne 

From  Thine  heart  to  my  feet." 

"Mother,  now  I  may  thee  seye, 
Better  is  that  I  one  deye 

Than  all  mankind  to  hel!6  go." 
"Son,  I  see  Thy  body  byswongen, 
Feet  and  hands  throughout  stongen: 

No  wonder  though  me  be  woe." 

"Mother,  now  I  shall  thee  tell, 
If  I  not  die,  thou  goest  to  hell: 

I  thole  death  for  thine  sake." 
"  Son,  thou  are  so  meek  and  mynde, 
Ne  wyt  me  not,  it  is  my  kind 

That  I  for  Thee  this  sorrow  make." 


THIRTEENTH     CENTURY 

"  Mother,  now  thou  mayst  well  leren 
What  sorrow  have  that  children  beren, 

What  sorrow  it  is  with  childe"  gon." 
"Sorrow,  y-wis,  I  can  thee  tell; 
But  it  be  the  pain  of  hell, 

More  sorrow  wot  I  none." 

"Mother,  rue  of  mother-care, 

For  now  thou  wost  of  mother-fare, 

Though  thou  be  clean  maiden  mon." 
"Sone,  help  at  alle"  need 
A116  those  that  to  me  grede, 

Maiden,  wife  and  full  wymmon." 

"Mother,  may  I  no  longer  dwell; 
The  time  is  come  I  shall  to  hell; 

The  thridde  day  I  rise  upon." 
"Son,  I  will  with  Thee  founden; 
I  die,  y-wis,  for  Thine  wounden: 

So  sorrowful  death  nes  never  none." 

When  He  rose,  tho  fell  her  sorrow; 
Her  bliss  sprung  the  thridde  morrow: 

Blithe,  mother,  wert  thou  tho! 
Levedy,  for  that  ilk6  bliss, 
Beseech  thy  Son  of  sunn6s  lisse: 

Thou  be  our  shield  against  our  foe. 
3 


THIRTEENTH     CENTURY 

Blessed  be  thou,  full  of  bliss, 
Let  us  never  heaven  miss, 

Through  thy  sweet6  Sony's  might! 
Lovered,  for  that  ilk6  blood, 
That  thou  sheddest  on  the  rood, 

Thou  bring  us  in  to  heaven's  light.     Amen. 


I   SYKE    WHEN   I   SING 

I  syke  when  I  sing 

For  sorrow  that  I  see, 
When  I  with  weeping 

Behold  upon  the  tree 
And  see  Jesu  the  sweet 
His  hert6  blood  for-lete 

For  the  love  of  me. 
His  woundes  waxen  wete, 
They  weepen  still  and  mete 

Mary,  rueth  thee. 

High  upon  a  down, 

There  all  folk  it  see  may, 
A  mile  from  each  town, 

About  the  mid-day, 
The  rood  is  up  areared; 
His  friends  are  afeare"d, 
4 


THIRTEENTH     CENTURY 

And  clingeth  so  the  clay; 
The  rood  stond  in  stone, 
Mary  stond  her  on, 

And  saith,  Welaway! 


When  I  see  Thee  behold 

With  eyen  bright^  bo, 
And  Thy  body  cold — 

Thy  ble  waxeth  bio, 
Thou  hangest  all  of  blood 
So  high  upon  the  rood 

Between  thieves  tuo — 
Who  may  syke  more? 
Mary  weepeth  sore, 

And  seeth  all  this  woe. 


The  nailes  be'th  too  strong, 

The  smiths  are  too  sly; 
Thou  bleedest  all  too  long; 

The  tree  is  all  too  high; 
The  stones  be'th  all  wete! 
Alas,  Jesu,  the  sweet  1 

For  now  friend  hast  thou  none, 
ut  Saint  John  to-mournynde, 
And  Mary  wepynde, 

For  pain  that  Thee  is  on. 
5 


THIRTEENTH     CENTURY 

Oft  when  I  syke 

And  makie  my  moan, 
Well  ill  though  me  like, 

Wonder  is  it  none, 
When  I  see  hang  high 
And  bitter  pains  dreye, 

Jesu,  my  lemmonl 
His  wound6s  sore  smart, 
The  spear  all  to  his  heart 

And  through  his  sides  gone. 

Oft  when  I  syke, 

With  care  I  am  through-sought; 
When  I  wake  I  wyke; 

Of  sorrow  is  all  my  thought. 
Alas!  men  be  wood 
That  sweareth  by  the  rood 

And  selleth  Him  for  nought, 
That  bought  us  out  of  sin! 
He  bring  us  to  wynne, 

That  hath  us  dear  bought! 


THIRTEENTH     CENTURY 


WINTER   SONG 

Wynter  wakeneth  al  my  care, 
Nou  this  leves  waxeth  bare, 
Ofte  y  sike  ant  mourne  sare, 

When  hit  cometh  in  my  thoth 

Of  this  worldes  joie,  how  hit  goth  al  to  noht. 

Now  hit  is,  ant  now  hit  nys, 

Also  hit  ner  nere  y-wys, 

That  moni  mon  seith  soth  hit  ys, 
Al  goth  bote  Codes  wille, 
Alle  we  shule  deye,  thah  us  like  ylle. 

Al  that  gren  me  graueth  greene, 
Nou  hit  faleweth  al  by-dene; 
Jhesu,  help  that  hit  be  sene, 

Ant  shild  us  from  helle: 

For  y  not  whider  y  shal,  ne  hou  longe  her  duelle. 


A   SONG   TO   THE  VIRGIN 

Of  on  that  is  so  fayr  and  bright 

Velut  marts  stella, 
Brighter  than  the  dayis  light, 

Parens  et  puella: 
7 


THIRTEENTH     CENTURY 

Ic  crie  to  thee,  thou  see  to  me, 
Levedy,  preye  thi  Sone  for  me, 

Tarn  pia, 
That  ic  mote  come  to  thee, 

Maria. 


Al  this  world  was  for-lore 

Eva  peccatrice, 
Tyl  our  Lord  was  y-bore 

De  te  genetrice. 
With  ave  it  went  away 
Thuster  nyth  and  cometh  the  day 

Salutis; 
The  wel!6  springeth  ut  of  thee, 

Virtutis. 


Levedy,  flour  of  alle  thing, 

Rosa  sine  spina, 
Thu  bere  Jhesu,  hevene  king, 

Gratia  divina: 

Of  alle  thou  ber'st  the  pris, 
Levedy,  quene  of  paradys 

Electa: 
Mayde  milde,  moder  es 

Effecta. 


FIFTEENTH    CENTURY 


SHEPHERD'S   SONG 

Tyrle,  tyrle,  so  merrylye  the  shepperdes  begin  to 
bio  we. 

Abowt  the  fyld  thei  pyped  full  right, 
Even  abowt  the  middes  off  the  nyght; 
Adown  frome  heven  thei  saw  cum  a  light. 
Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 

Off  angels  ther  came  a  company, 
With  mery  songes  and  melody. 
The  shepperdes  anonne  gane  them  aspy. 
Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 

Gloria  in  excelsis,  the  angels  song, 
And  said,  who  peace  was  present  among, 
To  every  man  that  to  the  faith  would  long. 
Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 

The  shepperdes  hyed  them  to  Bethleme, 
To  se  that  blyssid  sons  beme; 
And  thor  they  found  that  glorious  streme. 
Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 

Now  preye  we  to  that  mek  chyld, 
And  to  His  mothere  that  is  so  myld, 
The  wich  was  never  defylyd, 

Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 
9 


FIFTEENTH     CENTURY 

That  we  may  cum  unto  His  blysse, 
Where  joy  shall  never  mysse, 
Than  may  we  syng  in  Paradice; 
Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 

I  pray  yow  all  that  be  here, 
Fore  to  syng  and  mak  good  chere, 
In  the  worship  off  God  thys  yere. 
Tyrle,  tyrle,  etc. 


CAROL   OF  THE   VIRGIN 

I  sing  of  a  maiden 

That  is  makeles; 
King  of  all  kings 

To  her  Son  she  ches. 

He  came  al  so  still 
There  His  mother  was, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

He  came  al  so  still 

To  His  mother's  hour, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  flour. 

10 


FIFTEENTH    CENTURY    CAROLS 

He  came  al  so  still 
There  His  mother  lay, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  spray. 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she; 

Well  may  such  a  lady 
Goddes  mother  be. 


FIFTEENTH   CENTURY  CAROLS 

THE   KING'S   SON 
From  a  Manuscript  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford 

Mater,  or  a  filium, 
Ut  post  hoc  exilium 
Nobis  donet  gaudium 
Beatorum  omniuml 

Fair  maiden,  who  is  this  bairn 
That  thou  bearest  in  thine  arm  ? 
Sir,  it  is  a  King 6s  Son, 
That  in  Heaven  above  doth  wone. 
Mater,  ora,  etc. 
1 1 


FIFTEENTH     CENTURY     CAROLS 

Man  to  father  He  hath  none, 
But  Himself  God  alone! 
Of  a  maiden  He  would  be  borne, 
To  save  mankind  that  was  forlorn! 
Mater,  ora,  etc. 

Thre  Kings  brought  Him  presents, 
Gold,  myrrh,  and  frankincense 
To  my  Son  full  of  might, 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  right! 
Mater,  ora,  etc. 

Fair  maiden,  pray  for  us 
Unto  thy  Son,  sweet  Jesus, 
That  He  will  send  us  of  His  grace 
In  heaven  on  high  to  have  a  place! 
Mater,  ora,  etc. 


THE  VIRGIN'S   SON 

Now  sing  we,  sing  we, 
Gloria  tibi  domine! 

Christ  keep  us  all,  as  He  well  can, 

A  solis  ortus  cardine! 
For  He  is  both  God  and  man, 

Qui  natus  est  de  virginel 
Sing  we,  etc. 


FIFTEENTH    CENTURY    CAROLS 

As  He  is  Lord  both  day  and  night, 

Venter  puellce  baiulat, 
So  is  Mary  mother  of  might, 

Secreta  qu<z  non  noverat. 
Sing  we,  etc. 

The  holy  breast  of  chastity, 

Verbo    c  once  pit    filium, 
So  brought  before  the  Trinity, 

Ut  castitatis  lilium! 
Sing  we,  etc. 

Between  an  ox  and  an  ass 

Enixa  est  puerpera; 
In  poor  clothing  clothed  He  was 

Qui  regnal  super  aethera! 
Sing  we,  etc. 


THE    BEST   SONG 

All  this  time  this  song  is  best: 
Verbum  caro  factum  est! 

This  night  there  is  a  child  born 
That  sprang  out  of  Jesse's  thorn; 
We  must  sing  and  say  thereforn 
Verbum  caro  factum  est! 


FIFTEENTH     CENTURY     CAROLS 

Jesus  is  the  child's  name, 
And  Mary  mild  is  his  dame; 
All  our  sorrow  shall  turn  to  game, 
Verbum  caro  factum  est! 

It  fell  upon  high  midnight, 
The  stars  shone  both  fair  and  bright, 
The  angels  sang  with  all  their  might 
Verbum  caro  jactum  est! 

Now  kneel  we  down  on  our  knee, 
And  pray  we  to  the  Trinity, 
Our  help,  our  succour  for  to  be! 
Verbum  caro  factum  est! 


A   MIRACULOUS  MATTER 

Man,  move  thy  mind  and  joy  this  feast, 
Veritas  de  terra  orta  est! 

As  I  came  by  the  way 

I  saw  a  sight  seemly  to  see, 
Three  shepherds  ranging  in  a  kay, 
Upon  the  field  keeping  their  fee. 
A  star,  they  said,  they  did  espy, 

Casting  the  beams  out  of  the  east, 
And  angels  making  melody 

Veritas  de  terra  orta  est! 
14 


FIFTEENTH    CENTURY    CAROLS 

Upon  that  sight  they  were  aghast, 
Saying  these  words,  as  I  say  thee: 

"  To  Bethlehem  shortly  let  us  haste, 
And  there  we  shall  the  truthe  see!" 

The  angel  said  unto  them  all  three, 
To  their  comfort  or  ever  he  ceased, 

"  Consolamini  and  merry  be, 

Veritas  de  terra  orta  est! 

"  From  heaven,  out  of  the  highest  see, 
Righteousness  hath  taken  way, 

With  mercy  meddled  plenteously, 
And  so  conceived  in  a  may, 

Miranda  res  this  is  in  fay! 

So  saith  the  prophet  in  his  gest: 

Now  is  He  born,  scripture  doth  say: 
Veritas  de  terra  orta  est!" 

Then  passed  the  shepherds  from  that  place, 
And  followed  by  the  starres  beam, 

That  was  so  bright  afore  their  face, 
It  brought  them  straight  unto  Bethlem. 

So  bright  it  shone,  on  all  the  realm 

Till  they  came  there  they  would  not  rest, 

To  Jewry  and  Jerusalem! 

Veritas  de  terra  orta  est! 


RICHARD     DE     CASTRE 

RICHARD  DE  CASTRE 

PRAYER   OF   RICHARD   DE   CASTRE 

Jesu,  Lord,  that  madist  me, 

And  with  Thy  blessed  blood  hast  bought, 
Forgive  that  I  have  greved  Thee 

With  word,  with  wil,  and  eek  with  thought. 

Jesu,  in  whom  is  al  my  trust, 

That  died  upon  the  roodd  tree, 
Withdrawe  myr  herte  from  fleshly  lust, 

And  from  al  worldly  vanyte! 

Jesu,  for  Thy  woundis  smerte 

On  feet  and  on  Thyn  handis  two, 

Make  me  meeke  and  low  of  herte, 
And  Thee  to  love  as  I  should  do. 

Jesu,  for  Thy  bitter  wounde 

That  wente  to  Thine  herte  roote, 

For  synne  that  hath  myn  herte  bounde, 
Thy  blessid  blood  mote  be  my  boote. 

And  Jesu  Christ,  to  Thee  I  calle, 

That  art  God,  full  of  might; 
Keep  me  cleane,  that  I  ne  falle 

In  deadly  sinne  neither  by  day  ne  night. 
16 


RICHARD     DE    CASTRfi 

Jesu,  grante  me  mine  asking, 
Perfect  pacience  in  my  disease; 

And  never  mote  I  do  that  thing 

That  should  Thee  in  ony  wise  displease. 

Jesu,  that  art  our  heavenly  kinge, 

Soothfast  God,  and  man  also, 
Give  me  grace  of  good  endinge, 

And  them  that  I  am  holden  unto. 

Jesu,  for  the  deadly  tearis 

That  Thou  sheddest  for  my  gilt, 

Heare  and  speede  my  prayers, 
And  spare  me  that  I  be  not  spilt. 

Jesu,  for  them  I  Thee  beseche 
That  wrathen  Thee  in  ony  wise, 

Withhold  from  them  Thine  hand  of  wreche 
And  let  them  live  in  Thy  service. 

Jesu,  moost  coumfort  for  to  see 

Of  Thy  saint  is  evereachone, 
Coumfort  them  that  careful  been. 

And  help  them  that  ben  woo-begone. 

Jesu,  keep  them  that  been  goode, 
Amend  them  that  han  grieved  Thee, 

And  send  them  fruytis  of  earthly  foode 
As  each  man  needith  in  his  degree. 


WILLIAM     DUNBAR 


Jesu,  that  art  withouten  lees, 

Almighty  God  in  Trynyte, 
Ceasse  these  werris  and  send  us  pees 

With  lasting  love  and  charitee. 

Jesu,  that  art  the  ghostly  stone 

Of  al  Holy  Church  in  middle  erthe, 

Bring  Thy  foldis  and  flockis  in  oon, 
And  rule  them  rightly  with  oon  herde. 

Jesu,  for  Thy  blessidful  blood 

Bringe,  if  Thou  wilt,  the  soulis  to  bliss 
Fro  whom  I  have  had  ony  good, 

And  spare  them  that  have  done  amiss.     Amen. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR 

ON   THE    NATIVITY   OF   CHRIST 

Rorate  cceli  desuper! 

Kevins,  distil  your  balmy  schouris, 
For  now  is  rissen  the  bricht  day  ster, 
Fro  the  ross  Mary,  flour  of  flouris: 
The  cleir  Sone,  quhom  no  clud  devouris, 
Surmunting  Phebus  in  the  est, 
Is  cumin  of  His  hevinly  touris; 
Et  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 
18 


WILLIAM     DUNBAR 


Archangellis,  angellis,  and  dompnationis, 
Tronis,  potestatis,  and  marteiris  seir 

And  all  ye  hevinly  operationis, 

Ster,  planeit,  firmament,  and  speir, 
Fyre,  erd,  air  and  waiter  cleir, 

To  Him  gife  loving,  most  and  lest, 
That  come  in  to  so  meik  manier; 
Et  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Synnaris  be  glaid,  and  pennance  do, 
And  thank  your  Maker  hairtfully; 

For  He  that  ye  micht  nocht  come  to, 
To  you  is  cumin  full  humbly, 
Your  saulis  with  His  blood  to  by, 

And  louss  you  of  the  feindis  arrest, 
And  only  of  His  awin  mercy; 
Pro  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

All  clergy  do  to  Him  inclyne, 

And  bow  unto  that  barne  benyng, 
And  do  your  obseruance  divyne 

To  Him  that  is  of  kingis  King; 

Ensence  his  altar,  reid  and  sing 
In  haly  kirk,  with  mynd  degest, 

Him  honouring  attour  all  thing, 
Qui  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Celestial  fowlis  in  the  aer, 

Sing  with  your  nottis  upoun  hicht; 
In  firthis  and  in  forrestis  fair 

Be  myrthfull  now,  at  all  your  mycht, 


WILLIAM     DUNBAR 


For  passit  is  your  dully  nycht; 
Aurora  hes  the  cluddis  perst, 

The  son  is  risen  with  glaidsum  lycht, 
Et  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Now  spring  up  flouris  fra  the  rute, 

Revert  you  upwart  naturaly, 
In  honour  of  the  blissit  frute 

That  raiss  up  fro  the  ross  Mary; 

Lay  out  your  levis  lustely, 
Fro  deid  tak  lyfe  now  at  the  lest 

In  wirschip  of  that  Prince  wirthy, 
Qui  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Sing  hevin  imperiall,  most  of  hicht, 

Regions  of  air  mak  armony; 
All  fishe  in  flud  and  foull  of  flicht, 

Be  myrthfull  and  mak  melody: 

All  Gloria  in  excelsis  cry, 
Heaven,  erd,  se,  man,  bird,  and  best, 

He  that  is  crownit  abone  the  sky 
Pro  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 


EDMUND     SPENSER 


EDMUND   SPENSER 

EASTER 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  lyfe  that  on  this  day, 

Didst  make  Thy  triumph  over  death  and  sin: 
And  having  harrowed  hell  didst  bring  away 

Captivity  thence  captive  us  to  win; 
This  joyous  day,  deare  Lord,  with  joy  begin, 

And  grant  that  we  for  whom  Thou  diddest  dye, 
Being  with  Thy  deare  blood  clene  washt  from  sin, 

May  live  forever  in  felicity. 
And  that  Thy  love  we  weighing  worthily, 

May  likewise  love  Thee  for  the  same  againe: 
And  for  Thy  sake  that  all  like  deare  didst  buy, 

With  love  may  one  another  entertayne. 
So  let  us  love,  dear  love,  like  as  we  ought, 
Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 

SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH 

TIME'S   GIFTS 

Verses  found  in  the  Author's  Bible  in  the 
Gate-House  at  Westminster 

Even  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 

21 


SIR     WALTER     RALEIGH 

When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust! 


PILGRIMAGE 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  Quiet, 
My  staff  of  Faith  to  walk  upon; 

My  scrip  of  Joy,  immortal  diet, 
My  bottle  of  Salvation, 

My  gown  of  Glory,  hope's  true  gage; 

And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 

Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer, 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given; 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  quiet  palmer, 

Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  heaven; 
Over  the  silver  mountains, 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains: 
There  will  I  kiss 
The  bowl  of  bliss; 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill, 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before; 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 
aa 


SIR     WALTER     RALEIGH 


THE   LIE 

Go,  Soul,  the  body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  arrant: 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant: 

Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 

And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Say  to  the  court,  it  glows 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood; 

Say  to  the  church,  it  shows 

What's  good,  and  doth  no  good: 

If  court  and  church  reply, 

Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  they  live 
Acting  by  others'  action; 

Not  loved  unless  they  give, 
Not  strong  but  by  a  faction: 

If  potentates  reply, 

Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  manage  the  estate, 

Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice  only  hate: 
23 


SIR     WALTER     RALEIGH 

And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 

Who,  in  their  greatest  cost, 
Seek  nothing  but  commending: 

And  if  they  make  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  wants  devotion; 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust; 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion; 

Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth; 

Tell  honour  how  it  alters; 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth; 

Tell  favour  how  it  falters: 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness; 

Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 

And  when  they  do  reply, 

Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 
24 


SIR     WALTER     RALEIGH 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness; 

Tell  skill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  charity  of  coldness; 

Tell  law  it  is  contention 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness; 

Tell  nature  of  decay; 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness; 

Tell  justice  of  delay: 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 
But  vary  by  esteeming; 

Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming: 

If  arts  and  schools  reply, 

Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it's  fled  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth; 
Tell  manhood  shakes  off  pity; 

Tell  virtue  least  preferreth: 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 
25 


SIR    JOHN     BEAUMONT 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing — 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing — 
Stab  at  thee  he  that  will 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


SIR    JOHN    BEAUMONT 

IN    DESOLATION 

0  Thou,  Who  sweetly  bend'st  my  stubborn  will, 
Who  send'st  Thy    stripes    to    teach    and  not    to 

kill! 

Thy  chearrful  face  from  me  no  longer  hide; 
Withdraw  these  clouds,  the  scourges  of  my  pride; 

1  sinke  to  hell,  if  I  be  lower  throwne: 
I  see  what  man  is,  being  left  alone. 

My  substance,  which  from  nothing  did  begin, 
Is  worse  than  nothing  by  the  waight  of  sin: 
I  see  my  selfe  in  such  a  wretched  state, 
As  neither  thoughts  conceive,  nor  words  relate. 
How  great  a  distance  parts  us!    for  in  Thee 
Is  endless  good,  and  boundless  ill  in  mee. 
All  creatures  prove  me  abject,  but  how  low 
Thou  onely  know'st,  and  teachest  me  to  know: 
To  paint  this  basenesse,   Nature  is  too  base; 
This  darknesse  yields  not  but  to  beames  of  grace. 
Where  shall  I  then  this  piercing  splendour  find  ? 
Or  found,  how  shall  it  guide  me,  being  blind? 
26 


SIR    JOHN     BEAUMONT 

Grace  is  a  taste  of  blisse,  a  glorious  gift, 
Which  can  the  soul  to  heav'nly  comforts  lift: 
It  will  not  shine  to  me,  whose  mind  is  drown'd 
In  sorrowes,  and  with  worldly  troubles  bound; 
It  will  not  daigne  within  that  house  to  dwell, 
Where  drynesse  reigns,  and  proud  distractions  swell. 
Perhaps  it  sought  me  in  those  lightsome  dayse 
Of  my  first  fervour,  when  few  winds  did  raise 
The  waves,  and  ere  they  could  full  strength  obtain, 
Some  whispering  gale  straight  charm 'd  them  down 

again; 

When  all  seem'd  calme,  and  yet  the  virgin's  Child 
On  my  devotions  in  His  manger  smiled; 
While  then  I  simply  walkt,  nor  heed  could  take 
Of  Complacence,  that  slye  deceitful  snake; 
When  yet  I  had  not  dang'rously  refus'd 
So  many  calls  to  virtue,  nor  abus'd 
The  spring  of  life,  which  I  so  oft  enjoy'd, 
Nor  made  so  many  good  intentions  voyd; 
Deserving  thus  that  grace  should  quite  depart, 
And  dreadfull  hardnesse  should  possesse  my  heart: 
Yet  in  that  state  this  onely  good  I  found, 
That  fewer  spots  did  then  my  conscience  wound; 
Though  who  can  censure,  whether  in  those  times, 
The  want  of  feeling  seem'd  the  want  of  crimes  ? 
If  solid  vertues  dwell  not  but  in  paine, 
I  will  not  wish  that  golden  age  againe 
Because  it  flow'd  with  sensible  delights 
Of  heavenly  things ;   God  hath  created  nights 
27 


SIR     PHILIP     SIDNEY 


As  well  as  dayes,  to  deck  the  varied  globe; 

Grace  comes  as  oft  clad  in  the  dusky  robe 

Of  desolation,  as  in  white  attire, 

Which  better  fits  the  bright  celestiall  quire. 

Some  in  foul  seasons  perish  through  despaire, 

But  more  through  boldnesse  when  the  days  are 

faire. 

This  then  must  be  the  med'cine  for  my  woes, 
To  yield  to  what  my  Saviour  shall  dispose; 
To  glory  in  my  basenesse;    to  rejoice 
In  mine  afflictions;    to  obey  His  voice, 
As  well  when  threatenings  my  defects  reprove 
As  when  I  cherisht  am  with  words  of  love; 
To  say  to  Him  in  ev'ry  time  and  place, 
"Withdraw   Thy   comforts,   so   Thou   leave   Thy 

grace." 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

SONNET 

Leaue  me,  O  Loue,  which  reachest  but  to  dust; 

And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things; 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust; 

Whateuer  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beames,  and  humble  all  thy  might 

To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedomes  be; 
Which  breakes  the  clowdes,  and  opens  forth  the 
light, 

That  doth  both  shine,  and  giue  us  sight  to  see. 
28 


ROBERT     SOUTHWELL 

O  take  fast  hold;    let  that  light  be  thy  guide 
In  this  small  course  which  birth  drawes  out  to 

death, 

And  thinke  how  euill  becommeth  him  to  slide, 
Who   seeketh   heav'n,   and    comes   of   heav'nly 

breath. 

Then  farewell,  world,  thy  vttermost  I  see: 
Eternall  Loue,  maintaine  Thy  life  in  me. 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 

THE    BURNING   BABE 

As  I  in  hoary  Winter's  night  stood  shivering  in 

the  snowe, 
Surpris'd  I  was  with  sudden  heat,  which  made  my 

herte  to  glowe; 
And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye  to  view  what  fire  was 

near, 
A  prety  Babe  all  burning  bright,  did  in  the  ayre 

appear, 
Who  scorched  with  excessive  heat,  such  floods  of 

tears  did  shed, 
As  though  His  floodes  should  quench  His  flames 

which  with  His  teares  were  fed; 
Alas!  quoth  He,  but  newly  borne,  in  fiery  heats 

I  frye, 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  herts  or   feel 

My  fire  but  I! 

29 


ROBERT     SOUTHWELL 

My  faultles  breast  the  fornace  is,  the  fuell  wound- 
ing thornes, 

Love  is  the  fire,  and  sighs  the  smoke,  the  ashes 
shame  and  scornes; 

The  fuell  Justice  layeth  on,  and  Mercy  blowes  the 
coales; 

The  metall  in  this  fornace  wrought  are  men's 
defiled  soules, 

For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am,  to  work  them  to 
their  good, 

So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath  to  wash  them  in  My 
blood: 

With  this  He  vanisht  out  of  sight  and  swiftly 
shronck  away, 

And  straight  I  called  unto  mind  that  it  was  Christ- 
mas-day e. 


NEW   PRINCE,   NEW   POMPE 

Behold  a  sely,  tender  Babe, 
In  freezing  winter  nighte, 

In  homely  manger  trembling  lies; 
Alas!    a  piteous  sighte! 

The  inns  are  full,  no  man  will  yelde 
This  little  pilgrime  bedd; 

But  forced  He  is  with  sely  beastes 

In  cribb  to  shroude  His  headd. 

3° 


ROBERT    SOUTHWELL 

Despise  not  Him  for  lyinge  there, 

First  what  He  is  enquire; 
An  orient  perle  is  often  founde 

In  depth  of  dirty  mire. 

Waye  not  His  cribbe,  His  wodden  dishe, 

Nor  beastes  that  by  Him  feede; 
Waye  not  His  mother's  poore  attire 
Nor  Josephe's  simple  weede. 

His  stable  is  a  Prince's  courte, 
The  cribbe  His  chaire  of  State; 

The  beastes  are  parcell  of  His  pompe, 
The  wodden  dishe,  His  plate. 

The  parsons  in  that  poore  attire 

His  royal    ivery  weare; 
The  Prince  Himself  is  come  from  heaven. 

This  pompe  is  prisdd  there. 

With  joy  approach,  O  Christian  wighte! 

Do  homage  to  thy  Kinge; 
And  highly  prise  His  humble  pompe 

Which  He  from  Heaven  doth  bringe. 


WILLIAM     SHAKESPEARE 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

THE   WASTE  OF   SHAME 

Th'  expense  of  Spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 

Is  lust  in  action,  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjurd,  murdrous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 

Savage,  extreame,  rude,  cruell,  not  to  trust, 
Enjoyd  no  sooner  but  dispised  straight, 

Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had 
Past  reason  hated  as  a  swallowed  bayt, 

On  purpose  layd  to  make  the  taker  mad. 
Mad  in  pursuit  and  in  possession  so, 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreame; 
A  blisse  in  proof e  and  proved  a  very  wo; 

Before  a  joy  proposed,  behind  a  dream. 
All  this  the  world  well  knowes;  yet  none  knowes 

well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 


THE   REMEDY 

Poore  soule  the  center  of  my  sinfull  earth, 
My  sinfull  earth  these  rebbell  powers  that  thee 

array, 

Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costlie  gay? 
32 


THOMAS    CAMPION 


Why  so  large  cost  having  so  short  a  lease, 

Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  wormes  inheritors  of  this  excesse 

Eat  up  thy  charge?    is  this  thy  bodies  end? 
Then  soule  live  thou  upon  thy  servants  losse, 

And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store; 
Buy  tearms  divine  in  selling  houres  of  drosse: 

Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 
So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men, 
And    death    once    dead,   ther's   no    more    dying 
then. 

THOMAS    CAMPION 

INVOCATION 

View  me,  Lord,  a  work  of  Thine: 
Shall  I  then  lie  drowned  in  night  ? 

Might  Thy  grace  in  me  but  shine, 
I  should  seem  made  all  of  light. 

But  my  soul  still  surfeits  so 
On  the  poisoned  baits  of  sin, 

That  I  strange  and  ugly  grow, 
All  is  dark  and  foul  within. 

Cleanse  me,  Lord,  that  I  may  kneel 
At  Thine  altar,  pure  and  white: 

They  that  once  Thy  mercies  feel, 
Gaze  no  more  on  earth's  delight. 
33 


THOMAS    CAMPION 


Worldly  joys,  like  shadows,   fade 
When  the  heavenly  light  appears; 

But  the  covenants  Thou  hast  made, 
Endless,  know  nor  days  nor  years. 

In  Thy  Word,  Lord,  is  my  trust, 
To  Thy  mercies  fast  I  fly; 

Though  I  am  but  clay  and  dust, 
Yet  Thy  grace  can  lift  me  high. 


THE   MAN   OF   LIFE   UPRIGHT 

The  man  of  life  upright. 

Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 
From  all  dishonest  deeds. 

Or  thought  of  vanity; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude 
Nor  sorrow  discontent: 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 
Nor  armour  for  defence, 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence: 
34 


SIR     HENRY     WOTTON 


He  only  can  behold 
With  unaffrighted  eyes 

The  horrors  of  the  deep 
And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things, 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends. 

His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 
The  earth  his  sober  inn 

And  quiet  pilgrimage. 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTON 

THE  CHARACTER   OF   A   HAPPY   LIFE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
Who  serveth  not  another's  will; 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill; 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 

Of  publick  fame  or  private  breath; 
35 


JOHN     DONNE 


Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Nor  vice;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise  or  feare  to  fall; 

Lord  of  himselfe.  though  not  of  lands, 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


JOHN  DON'NE 

A   HYMN   TO   GOD   THE   FATHER 

i 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 

Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  before? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  which  I  run 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore? 
When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 
36 


JOHN     DONNE 


ii 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  wonne 
Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallow'd  in  a  score? 
When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 


I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I  have  spun 
My  last  thred,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore; 
But  swear  by  Thyself,  that  at  my  death  Thy  Son 
Shall  shine  as  He  shines  now  and  heretofore; 
And,  having  done  that,  Thou  hast  done; 
I  fear  no  more. 


TO   DEATH 

Death,  be  not  proud,   though    some  have  called 
thee 

Mightie  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  soe; 

For  those,  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  over- 
throw, 

Dye  not,  poor  Death,  nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  mee. 

From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture  bee, 
37 


JOHN     DONNE 


Much  pleasure,  then  from  thee,  much  more  must 

flowe, 

And  soonest  our  best  men  do  with  thee  goe, 
Rest  of  their  bones,  and  soules'  deliverie. 
Thou'rt  slave  to   Fate,  Chance,  Kings,  and  des- 
perate men, 

And  dost  with  poyson,  warr,  and  sicknes  dwell, 
And  poppie  or  charmes  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 
And  better  then  thy  stroke;    why  swell'st  thou 

then? 

One  short  sleepe  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  Death  shall  be  no  more;    Death,  thou  shalt 
dye. 


A  HYMNE  TO  CHRIST.  AT  THE  AUTHOR'S 
LAST   GOING    INTO   GERMANY 

In  what  torne  ship  soever  I  embark, 
That  ship  shall  be  my  embleme  of  Thy  ark; 
What  sea  soever  swallow  me,  that  floud 
Shall  be  to  mee  an  embleme  of  Thy  blood; 
Though  Thou  with  clouds  of  anger  doe  disguise 
Thy  face,  yet  through  that  mask  I  know  those 

eyes. 

Which,  though  they  turn  away  sometimes, 
They  never  will  despise. 
38 


JOHN    DON  NE 


I  sacrifice  this  island  unto  Thee, 

And  all  whom  I  love  here,  and  who  love  mee; 

When    I    have    put    our    seas    'twixt    them    and 

mee, 

Put  Thou  Thy  sea  betwixt  my  sinns  and  Thee. 
As  the  tree's  sapp  doth  seek  the  roote  below 
In  winter,  in  my  winter  now  I  go, 

Where  none  but  Thee,  th'  eternal  root 
Of  true  love,  I  may  know. 

Nor  Thou,  nor  Thy  religion,  dost  controule 

The  amorousness  of  a  harmonious  soule; 

But  Thou  wouldst  have  that  love  Thy  selfe:    as 

Thou 

Art  jealous,  Lord,  so  I  am  jealous  now; 
Thou  lovest  not,  till  from  loving  more  Thou  free 
My  soule;    Who  ever  gives,  takes  libertie; 
Oh,  if  Thou  car'st  not  whom  I  love, 
Alas,  Thou  lov'st  not  mee. 

Seal,  then,  this  bill  of  my  divorce  to  all, 
On  whom  those  fainter  beames  of  love  did  fall; 
Marry  those  loves,  which  in  youth  scatter'd  bee 
On  fame,  wit,  hopes  (false  mistresses),  to  Thee. 
Churches  are  best  for  prayre,  that  have  least  light; 
To  see  God  only,  I  goe  out  of  sight: 
And  to  'scape  stormy  days,  I  choose 
An  everlastinge  night. 


39 


PHINEAS     FLETCHER 


PHINEAS    FLETCHER 

AN   HYMNE 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears 

And  bathe  Those  beauteous  feet 
Which  brought  from  heav'n 

The  news  and  Prince  of  peace; 
Cease  not,  wet  eyes, 

His  mercies  to  intreat; 
To  crie  for  vengeance 

Sinne  doth  never  cease: 
In  your  deep  flouds 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears; 
Nor  let  His  eye 

See  sinne  but  through  my  tears. 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 

SOUL,    WHICH    TO    HELL    WAST    THRALL 

Soul,  which  to  hell  wast  thrall, 

He,  He  for  thine  offence 
Did  suffer  death,  who  could  not  die  at  all. 

O  sovereign  excellence! 
O  life  of  all  that  lives! 
Eternal  bounty,  which  all  goodness  gives! 
How  could  Death  mount  so  high? 

No  wit  this  point  can  reach; 

Faith  only  doth  us  teach, 
For  us  He  died,  at  all  who  could  not  die. 
40 


WILLIAM     DRUMMOND 


WORLD'S   BEAUTY 

If  with  such  passing  beauty,  choice  delights, 
The  architect  of  this  great  round  did  frame 
This  palace  visible,  which  world  we  name, 
Yet  silly  mansion  but  of  mortal  wights; 
How  many  wonders,  what  amazing  lights, 
Must  that  triumphing  seat  of  glory  claim, 
Which   doth  transcend  all  this  great  All's  high 

heights, 

Of  whose  bright  sun  ours  here  is  but  a  beam! 
O  blest  abode!     O  happy  dwelling-place 

Where  visibly  th'   Invisible  doth  reign! 
Blest  people,  who  do  see  true  beauty's  face, 
With  whose  dark  shadows  He  but   earth  doth 

deign, 

All  joy  is  but  annoy,  all  concord  strife, 
Match'd  with  your  endless  bliss  and  happy 
life. 


THE    LAST   HOPE 

Too  long  I  follow 'd  have  my  fond  desire, 
And  too  long  panted  on  the  Ocean  streams, 

Too  long  refreshment  sought  amidst  the  fire. 
And  hunted  joys,  which  to  my  soul  were  bleames. 
41 


ROBERT     HERRICK 


Ah!   when  I  had  what  most  I  did  admire, 

And  seen  of  life's  delights  the  last  extremes, 
I  found  all  but  a  rose  hedg'd  with  a  brier, 

An  ought,  a  thought,  a  show  of  mocking  dreams. 
Henceforth  on  Thee,  mine  only  good,  I'll  think, 

For  only  Thou  canst  grant  what  I  do  crave; 
Thy  nail  my  pen  shall  be,  Thy  blood  mine  ink, 

Thy  winding-sheet  my  paper,  study,  grave. 
And  till  that  soul  forth  of  this  body  flee, 
No  hope  I'll  have,  but  only,  only  Thee. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

AN   ODE   TO   GOD 

Deer  God, 
If  Thy  smart  Rod 

Here  did  not  make  me  sorrie, 
I  sho'd  not  be 
With  Thine,  or  Thee, 

In  Thy  eternall  Glorie. 

But  since 

Thou  didst  convince 
My  sinnes,  by  gently  striking; 
Add  still  to  those 
First  stripes,  new  blowes, 
According  to  Thy  liking. 
42 


ROBERT     HERRICK 


Feare  me, 

Or  scourging  teare  me; 
That  thus  from  vices  driven, 

I  may  from  Hell 

Flie  up,  to  dwell 
With  Thee,  and  Thine  in  Heaven. 


HIS   LETANIE,   TO   THE   HOLY   SPIRIT 

In  the  houre  of  my  distresse, 
When  temptations  me  oppresse, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confesse, 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
Sick  in  heart  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drown'd  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  the  artlesse  Doctor  sees 

No  one  hope,  but  of  his  Fees, 

And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees; 

Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

43 


ROBERT     HERRICK 


When  his  Potion  and  his  Pill, 
Has,  or  none,  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing,  but  to  kill; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  the  passing-bell  doth  tole, 
And  the  Furies  in  a  shole 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soule; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  the  tapers  now  burne  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  then  true; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  the  Priest  his  last  hath  praid, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decaid; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  (God  knowes)  I'm  tost  about, 
Either  with  despaire,  or  doubt; 
Yet  before  the  glasse  be  out, 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

When  the  Tempter  me  pursu'th 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  halfe  damns  me  with  untruth; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 

44 


ROBERT     HERRICK 


When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  eares  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 


When  the  Judgment  is  re  veal  'd 
And  that  open'd  which  was  seal'd, 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appeal'd; 
Sweet  Spirit  comfort  me! 


GRACE    FOR  A  CHILD 


What  God  gives,  and  what  we  take, 
'Tis  a  gift  for  Christ  His  sake: 
Be  the  meale  of  Beanes  and  Pease, 
God  be  thank'd  for  those,  and  these; 
Have  we  flesh,  or  have  we  fish, 
All  are  Fragments  from  His  dish. 
He  His  Church  save,  and  the  King, 
And  our  Peace  here,  like  a  Spring, 
Make  it  ever  flourishing. 
45 


ROBERT     HERRICK 


Here  a  little  child  I  stand, 
Heaving   up   my  either  hand; 
Cold  as  Paddocks  though  they  be, 
Here  I  lift  them  up  to  Thee, 
For  a  Benizon  to  fall 
On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all.     Amen. 


TO   KEEP   A   TRUE   LENT 

Is  this  a  Fast,  to  keep 

The  Larder  leane? 

And  cleane 
From  fat  of  Veales,  and  Sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 

To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  Fish? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  houre, 

Or  ragg'd  to  go, 

Or  show 

A  down-cast  look,  and  a  sowre  ? 
46 


HENRY     KING 


No:    Tis  a  Fast,  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 

And  meat, 
Unto  the  hungry  Soule. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate, 

And   hate; 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent; 
To  starve  thy  sin, 

Not  Bin; 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent. 


HENRY  KING 

A   CONTEMPLATION    UPON   FLOWERS 

Brave  flowers — that  I  could  gallant  it  like  you 

And  be  as  little  vain! 
You  come  abroad,  and  make  a  harmless  show, 

And  to  your  beds  of  earth  again. 
You  are  not  proud;    you  know  your  birth; 
For  your  embroider'd  garments  are  from  earth. 

You  do  obey  your  months  and  times,  but  I 

Would  have  it  ever  Spring: 
My  fate  would  know  no  Winter,  never  die, 

Nor  think  of  such  a  thing. 
47 


FRANCIS     QUARLES 


O  that  I  could  my  bed  of  earth  but  view 
And  smile,  and  look  as  cheerfully  as  you! 

O  teach  me  to  see  Death  and  not  to  fear, 

But  rather  to  take  truce! 
How  often  have  I  seen  you  at  a  bier, 

And  there  look  fresh  and  spruce! 
You  fragrant  flowers!    then  teach  me,  that  my 

breath 
Like  yours  may  sweeten  and  perfume  my  death. 


FRANCIS  QUARLES 

RESPICE   FINEM 

My  soul,  sit  thou  a  patient  looker  on; 
Judge  not  the  Play  before  the  Play  is  done: 
Her  Plot  has  many  changes;    Every  day 
Speaks  a  new  Scene;  the  last  act  crowns  the  Play. 


FALSE    WORLD 

False  world,  thou  ly'st:    thou  canst  not  lend 

The  least  delight: 
Thy  favours  cannot  gain  a  Friend, 

They  are  so  slight: 
48 


FRANCIS     QUARLES 


Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night: 

Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  supply 'st; 
And  yet  thou  vaunt'st,  and  yet  thou  vy'st 
With   heav'n;     fond   earth,   thou   boast'st;    false 
world,  thou  ly'st. 

Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

Of  endlesse  treasure: 
Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure; 
Thou  ask'st  the  Conscience  what  she  ails, 

And  swear'st  to  ease  her: 
There's  none  can  want  where  thou  supply'st: 
There's  none  can  give  where  thou  deny'st, 
Alas,  fond  world,  thou  boast'st;  false  world,  thou 
ly'st. 

What  well  advised  eare  regards 

What  earth  can  say? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay: 
Thy  cunning  can  but  pack  the  cards; 

Thou  canst  not  play: 
Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  vy'st; 
If  seen,  and  then  revy'd,  deny'st; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st;   false  world,  thou 
ly'st. 

49 


FRANCIS     QUARLES 


Thy  tinsil-bosome  seems  a  mint 

Of  new-coin'd  treasure; 
A  Paradise,  that  has  no  stint. 

No  change,  no  measure; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in't, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure; 
Vain  earth!    that  falsely  thus  comply'st 
With  man;    Vain  man,  that  thou  rely'st 
On  earth;    Vain  man,  thou  doat'st;    Vain  earth, 
thou  ly'st. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  measure 

To  haberdash 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  drosse  and  trash? 
The  height  of  whose  inchaunting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  flash  ? 

Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  supply'st 
Us  mortalls  with  ?     Are  these  the  high'st  ? 
Can    these    bring    cordiall    peace  ?     False    world, 
thou  ly'st. 

A   DIVINE   RAPTURE 
Canticles  II.  16 

Ev'n  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 

That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 

And  having  rang'd  and  search'd  a  thousand  nooks, 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 
5° 


FRANCIS     QUARLES 


Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoyn: 
So  I  my  Best -beloved's  am;  so  He  is  mine. 


Ev'n  so  we  met;   and  after  long  pursuit, 

Ev'n  so  we  joined;    we  both  became  entire; 
No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax,  and  He  was  flames  of  fire: 
Our  firm-united  souls  did  more  than  twine; 
So  I  my  Best-beloved's  am;  so  He  is  mine. 


If  all  those  glittering  monarchs,  that  command 

The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 
Should  tender  in  exchange  their  shares  of  land, 
I  would  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all: 
Their  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin: 
The  world's  but    theirs ;    but  my  Beloved's 
mine. 


He  gives  me  wealth;    I  give  Him  all  my  vows: 
I  give  Him  songs;    He  gives  me  length  of  days: 
With  wreaths  of  grace  He  crowns  my  conquering 

brows; 

And  I  His  temples  with  a  crown  of  praise, 
Which  He  accepts:    an  everlasting  sign 
That  I  my  Best-beloved's  am;    that  He  is 
mine. 


FRANCIS     QUARLES 


THE   FOYL 

'Tis  but  a  foyl  at  best,  and  that's  the  most 

Your  skill  can  boast: 
My  slipp'ry  footing  fail'd  me;    and  you  tript 

Just  as  I  slipt: 
Me  wanton  weakness  did  her  self  betray 

With  too  much  play: 
I  was  too  bold:    he  never  yet  stood  sure, 

That  stands  secure: 
Who  ever  trusted  to  his  native  strength, 

But  fell  at  length? 

The  title's  craz'd,  the  tenure  is  not  good, 
That  claims  by  th'  evidence  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Boast  not  thy  skill;    the  righteous  man  falls  oft, 

Yet  falls  but  soft: 
There  may  be  dirt  to  mire  him,  but  no  stones 

To  crush  his  bones: 
What  if  he  staggers?     Nay,  put  case  he  be 

Foyl'd  on  his  knee  ? 
That  very  knee  will  bend  to  Heaven,  and  woo 

For  mercy  too. 
The  true-bred  Gamester  ups  afresh,  and  then, 

Falls  to  't  agen; 

Whereas  the  leaden-hearted  coward  lies, 
And  yields  his  conquered  life,  or  craven'd,  dies. 
52 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

EASTER 

I  got  me  flours  to  straw  Thy  way, 

I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree; 
But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  Thy  sweets  along  with  Thee. 

Yet  though  my  flours  be  lost,  they  say 

A  hart  can  never  come  too  late; 
Teach  it  to  sing  Thy  praise  this  day, 

And  then  this  day  my  life  shall  date. 


THE   COLLAR 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cry'd,  "No  more; 
I  will  abroad;" 

What,  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  ? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free;    free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  winde,  as  large  as  store. 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  bloud,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordiall  fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wine 

Before  my  sighs  did  drie  it;    there  was  corn 
53 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


Before  my  tears  did  drown  it; 
Is  the  year  onely  lost  to  me? 

Have  I  no  bayes  to  crown  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay  ?    all  blasted, 

All  wasted? 
Not  so,  my  heart;    but  there  is  fruit, 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures;    leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not;   forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands 
Which  pettie  thoughts  have  made;    and  made  to 

thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 

While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see. 
Away!    take  heed; 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy  fears; 

He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need 

Deserves  his  load. 
But  as  I  rav'd  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wilde 

At  every  word, 

Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "Childe;" 
And  I  reply'd,  "My  Lord." 


54 


GEORGE     HERBERT 


THE   PULLEY 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glasse  of  blessings  standing  by; 
"  Let  us,"  said  He,  "poure  on  him  all  we  can: 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way; 
Then    beautie    flow'd,    then    wisdome,    honour, 

pleasure : 

When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottome  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  He, 
"  Bestow  this  Jewell  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature. 

So  both  should  losers  be." 

"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessnesse : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  wearie,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  wearinesse 

May  tosse  him  to  My  breast." 
55 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


DISCIPLINE 

Throw  away  Thy  rod, 
Throw  away  Thy  wrath; 

0  my  God, 
Take  the  gentle  path. 

For  my  heart's  desire 
Unto  Thine  is  bent; 

1  aspire 
To  a  full  consent. 

Not  a  word  or  look 
I  affect  to  own, 

But  by  book, 
And  Thy  Book  alone. 

Though  I  fail,  I  weep; 
Though  I  halt  in  pace, 

Yet  I  creep 
To  the  throne  of  grace. 

Then  let  wrath  remove, 
Love  will  do  the  deed; 

For  with  love 
Stonie  hearts  will  bleed. 
56 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


Love  is  swift  of  foot; 
Love's  a  man  of  warre 

And  can  shoot, 
And  can  hit  from  farre. 

Who  can  "scape  his  bow  ? 

That  which  wrought  on  Thee, 

Brought  Thee  low, 
Needs  must  work  on  me. 

Throw  away  Thy  rod: 

Though  man  frailties  hath, 
Thou  art  God; 
Throw  away  Thy  wrath. 


LOVE 

Love  bade  me  welcome;    yet  my  soul  drew  back, 

Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 
But  quick-ey'd  Love,  observing  me  grow  slack 

From  my  first  entrance  in, 
Drew  nearer  to  me,  sweetly  questioning 

If  I  lack'd  any  thing. 

"A  guest,"  I  answered,  "worthy  to  be  here:" 
Love  said,  "  You  shall  be  he." 

57 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


"I,  the  unkind,  ungrateful?     Ah,  my  dear, 

I  cannot  look  on  Thee." 
Love  took  my  hand,  and  smiling  did  reply, 

"  Who  made  the  eyes  but  I  ?" 

' '  Truth ,  Lord ,  but  I  have  marred  them ;  let  my  shame 

Go  where  it  doth  deserve." 

"And  know  you  not,"  says  Love,  "Who  bore  the 
blame?" 

"My  dear,  then  I  will  serve." 
"You  must  sit  down,"  says  Love,  "and  taste  My 
meat." 

So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 


THE   ELIXIR 

Teach  me,  my  God  and   King 
In  all  things  Thee  to  see, 

And  what  I  do  in  any  thing 
To  do  it  as  for  Thee. 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast, 
To  runne  into  an  action; 

But  still  to  make  Thee  prepossest, 
And  give  it  his  perfection. 

58 


GEORGE  HERBERT 


A  man  that  looks  on  glasse, 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye; 
Or  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  passe, 

And  then  the  heaven  espie. 

All  may  of  Thee  partake : 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean 
Which  with  his  tincture,  "for  Thy  sake," 

Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  drudgery  divine; 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  Thy  laws 

Makes  that  and  th'  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 

That  turneth  all  to  gold; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 

Cannot  for  lesse  be  told. 


MAN 

My  God,  I  heard  this  day 
That  none  doth  build  a  stately  habitation 
But  he  that  means  to  dwell  therein. 
What  house  more  stately  hath  there  been, 
Or  can  be,  then  is  Man  ?    to  whose  creation 
All  things  are  in  decay. 
59 


GEORGE     HERBERT 


For  Man  is  ev'ry  thing, 

And  more;    he  is  a  tree,  yet  bears  mo'  fruit; 
A  beast,  yet  is,  or  should  be,  more: 
Reason  and  speech  we  onely  bring; 
Parrats  may  thank  us,  if  they  are  not  mute, 
They  go  upon  the  score. 

Man  is  all  symmetric, 

Full  of  proportions,  one  limbe  to  another, 
And  all  to  all  the  world  besides; 
Each  part  may  call  the  farthest  brother, 
For  head  with  foot  hath  private  amitie, 
And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 


Nothing  hath  got  so  farre 

But  Man  hath  caught  and  kept  it  as  his  prey; 
His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  starre; 
He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere; 
Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because  that  they 
Finde  their  acquaintance  there. 

For  us  the  windes  do  blow, 
The  earth  resteth,  heav'n  moueth,  fountains  flow; 
Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good, 
As  our  delight  or  as  our  treasure; 
The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 
60 


GEORGE     HERBERT 


The  starres  have  us  to  bed, 

Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sunne  with- 
draws; 

Musick  and  light  attend  our  head. 
All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kinde 
In  our  descent  and  being;    to  our  minde 
In  their  ascent  and  cause. 

Each  thing  is  full  of  dutie: 
Waters  united  are  our  navigation; 
Distinguish 6d,  our  habitation; 
Below,  our  drink;    above,  our  meat; 
Both  are  our  cleanlinesse.     Hath  one  such  beautie  ? 
Then  how  are  all  things  neat! 

More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he'l  take  notice  of:    in  ev'ry  path 

He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend  him 
When  sicknesse  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 
Oh  mightie  love!     Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him. 

Since  then,  my  God,  Thou  hast 
So  brave  a  palace  built,  O  dwell  in  it, 
That  it  may  dwell  with  Thee  at  last! 
Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit, 
That,  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may  serve  Thee, 
And  both  Thy  servants  be. 
61 


GEORGE     HERBERT 


FRAILTIE 

Lord,  in  my  silence  how  do  I  despise 

What  upon  trust 
Is  styldd  honour,  riches,  or  fair  eyes, 

But  is  fair  dust ! 
I  surname  them  guilded  clay, 
Deare  earth,  fine  grasse  or  hay; 
In  all,  I  think  my  foot  doth  ever  tread 
Upon  their  head. 

But  when  I  view  abroad  both  regiments, 

The  world's  and  Thine — 
Thine  clad  with  simplenesse  and  sad  events; 

The  other  fine, 
Full  of  glorie  and  gay  weeds, 
Brave  language,  braver  deeds — 
That  which  was  dust  before  doth  quickly  rise, 
And  prick  mine  eyes. 

O,  brook  not  this,  lest  if  what  even  now 

My  foot  did  tread 
Affront  those  joyes  wherewith  Thou  didst  endow 

And  long  since  wed 
My  poore  soul,  ev'n  sick  of  love — 
It  may  a  Babel  prove, 
Commodious  to  conquer  heav'n  and  Thee, 
Planted  in  me. 
62 


GEORGE     HERBERT 


NATURE 

Full  of  rebellion,  I  would  die, 

Or  fight,  or  travell,  or  denie 

That  Thou  hast  ought  to  do  with  me: 

O,  tame  my  heart; 

It  is  Thy  highest  art 
To  captivate  strongholds  to  Thee. 


If  Thou  shalt  let  this  venome  lurk, 
And  in  suggestions  fume  and  work, 
My  soul  will  turn  to  bubbles  straight, 

And  thence,  by  kinde, 

Vanish  into  a  winde, 
Making  Thy  workmanship  deceit. 


O,  smooth  my  rugged  heart,  and  there 

Engrave  Thy  rev'rend  Law  and  fear; 

Or  make  a  new  one,  since  the  old 
Is  saplesse  grown, 
And  a  much  fitter  stone 

To  hide  my  dust  then  Thee  to  hold. 


F.     B.     P. 

F.  B.  P. 

URBS   BEATA   HIERUSALEM 

Hierusalem,  my  happy  home! 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end  ? 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 

O  happy  harbour  of  the  Saints, 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil, 
In  thee  no  sorrow  may  be  found, 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  toil! 

In  thee  no  sickness  may  be  seen, 
No  hurt,  no  ache,  no  sore; 

There  is  no  death,  nor  ugly  deuill, 
But  Life  for  evermore. 

No  dampish  mist  is  seen  in  thee, 
No  cold  nor  darksome  night; 

There  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun; 
There  God  Himself  gives  light. 

There  lust  and  lucre  cannot  dwell, 

There  envy  bears  no  sway; 
There  is  no  hunger,  heat,  nor  cold, 

But  pleasure  every  way. 
64 


F.     B.     P. 

Hierusalem !     Hierusalem ! 

God  grant  I  once  may  see 
Thy  endless  joys,  and  of  the  same 

Partaker  aye  to  be. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stones. 
Thy   bulwarks   diamonds   square, 

Thy  gates  are  of  right  orient  pearl, 
Exceeding  rich  and  rare. 

Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles 

With  carbuncles  do  shine. 
Thy  very  streets  are  paved  with  gold, 

Surpassing  clear  and  fine. 

Thy  houses  are  of  ivory, 

Thy  windows  crystal  clear, 
Thy  tiles  are  made  of  beaten  gold — 

O  God,  that  I  were  there! 

Within  thy  gates  no  thing  can  come 

That  is  not  passing  clean: 
No  spider's  web,  no  dirt,  no  dust, 

No  filth  may  there  be  seen. 

Ah,  my  sweet  home,  Hierusalem, 
Would  God  I  were  in  thee! 

Would  God  my  woes  were  at  an  end, 
Thy  joys  that  I  might  see! 
65 


F.     B.     P. 

Thy  Saints  are  crowned  with  glory  great, 

They  see  God  face  to  face; 
They  triumph  still,  they  still  rejoice, 

Most  happy  is  their  case. 

We  that  are  here  in  banishment 

Continually  do  moan, 
We  sigh,  and  sob,  we  weep  and  wail, 

Perpetually  we  groan. 

Our  sweet  is  mixed  with  bitter  gall, 

Our  pleasure  is  but  pain; 
Our  joys  scarce  last  the  looking  on, 

Our  sorrows  still  remain. 

But  there  they  live  in  such  delight, 

Such  pleasure  and  such  play, 
As  that  to  them  a  thousand  years 

Doth  seem  as  yesterday. 

Thy  vineyards  and  thy  orchards  are 

Most  "beautiful  and  fair, 
Full  furnished  with  trees  and  fruit, 

Exceeding  rich  and  rare. 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  gallant  walks 

Continually  are  green; 
There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 
66 


F.     B.     P. 

There's  nectar  and  ambrosia  made, 

There's  musk  and  civet  sweet, 
There  many  a  fair  and  dainty  drug 

Is  trodden  under  feet. 

There  cinnamon,  there  sugar  grows, 

There  nard  arid  balm  abound, 
What  tongue  can  tell  or  heart  receive 

The  joys  that  there  are  found  ? 

Quite  through  the  streets  with  silver  sound 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow, 
Upon  whose  banks  on  every  side 

The  wood  of  life  doth  grow. 

There  trees  for  evermore  bear  fruit, 

And  evermore  do  spring; 
There  evermore  the  angels  sit, 

And  evermore  do  sing. 

There  David  stands,  with  harp  in  hands 

As  master  of  the  choir, 
Ten  thousand  times  that  man  were  blest 

That  might  this  music  hear. 

Our  Lady  sings  Magnificat 

With  tones  surpassing  sweet, 
And  all  the  virgins  bear  their  part, 

Sitting  about  her  feet. 
67 


A.     W. 

Te  Deum  doth  Saint  Ambrose  sing, 
Saint  Austin  doth  the  like; 

Old  Simeon  and  Zachary 

Have  not  their  songs  to  seek. 

There  Magdalene  hath  left  her  moan, 

And  cheerfully  doth  sing 
With  blessed  Saints,  whose  harmony 

In  every  street  doth  ring. 

Hierusalem,  my  happy  home! 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee! 
Would  God  my  woes  were  at  an  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see!     Amen. 


A.  w. 
THOUGH   LATE,    MY   HEART 

Though  late,  my  heart,  yet  turn  at  last, 
And  shape  thy  course  another  way; 
'Tis  better  lose  thy  labour  past 
Than  follow  on  to  sure  decay: 

What  though  thou  long  have  stray'd  awry? 

In  hope  of  grace  for  mercy  cry. 

Though  weight  of  sin  doth  press  thee  down 
And  keep  thee  grov'ling  on  the  ground; 
68 


A.     W. 

Though  black  Despair,  with  angry  frown, 
Thy  wit  and  judgment  quite  confound; 

Though  time  and  wit  have  been  misspent, 

Yet  grace  is  left  if  thou  repent. 

Weep  then,  my  heart,  weep  still  and  still, 
Nay,  melt  to  floods  of  flowing  tears; 
Send  out  such  shrieks  as  heav'n  may  fill 
And  pierce  thine  angry  Judge's  ears, 
And  let  thy  soul,  that  harbours  sin, 
Bleed  streams  of  blood  to  drown  it  in. 

Then  shall  thine  angry  Judge's  face 
To  cheerful  looks  itself  apply; 
Then  shall  thy  soul  be  fill'd  with  grace, 
And  fear  of  death  constrain'd  to  fly. 

Even  so,  my  God !    oh  when  ?    how  long  ? 

I  would,  but  Sin  is  too,  too  strong. 

I  strive  to  rise,  Sin  keeps  me  down; 
I  fly  from  Sin,  Sin  follows  me. 
My  will  doth  reach  at  glory's  crown, 
Weak  is  my  strength,  it  will  not  be. 

See  how  my  fainting  soul  doth  pant; 

Oh,  let  Thy  strength  supply  my  want. 


69 


ANONYMOUS 


THE  HEART'S   CHAMBERS 

If  I  could  shut  the  gate  against  my  thoughts 
And  keep  out  sorrow  from  this  room  within, 

Or  memory  could  cancel  all  the  notes 
Of  my  misdeeds,  and  I  unthink  my  sin: 

How  free,  how  clear,  how  clean  my  soul  should 
lie 

Discharged  of  such  a  loathsome  company! 

Or  were  there  other  rooms  without  my  heart 
That  did  not  to  my  conscience  join  so  near, 

Where  I  might  lodge  the  thoughts  of  sin  apart 
That  I  might  not  their  clam'rous  crying  hear; 

What  peace,  what  joy,  what  ease  should  I  pos- 
sess, 

Freed  from  their  horrors  that  my  soul  oppress! 

But,  O  my  Saviour,  Who  my  refuge  art, 

Let  Thy  dear  mercies  stand  'twixt  them  and 
me, 

And  be  the  wall  to  separate  my  heart, 
So  that  I  may  at  length  repose  me  free; 

That  peace,  and  joy,  and  rest  may  be  within, 

And  I  remain  divided  from  my  sin. 


70 


ANONYMOUS 


A   HEAVENLIE   VISITOR 

Yet  if  His  Majesty  our  sovereign  lord 

Should  of  his  own  accord 

Friendly  himself  invite, 

And  say  "I'll  be  your  guest  to-morrow  night," 

How  should  we  stir  ourselves,  call  and  command 

All  hands  to  work!     "Let  no  man  idle  stand. 

"Set  me  fine  Spanish  tables  in  the  hall, 

See  they  be  fitted  all; 

Let  there  be  room  to  eat, 

And  order  taken  that  there  want  no  meat. 

See  every  sconce  and  candlestick  made  bright, 

That  without  tapers  they  may  give  a  light. 

"Look  to  the  presence:    are  the  carpets  spread, 

The  dazie  o'er  the  head, 

The  cushions  in  the  chairs, 

And  all  the  candles  lighted  on  the  stairs? 

Perfume  the  chambers,  and  in  any  case 

Let  each  man  give  attendance  in  his  place." 

Thus  if  the  king  were  coming  would  we  do, 
And  'twere  good  reason  too; 
For  'tis  a  duteous  thing 
To  show  all  honour  to  an  earthly  king, 
71 


JOHN     MILTON 


And  after  all  our  travail  and  our  cost, 
So  he  be  pleased,  to  think  no  labour  lost. 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  King  of  Heaven 

All's  set  at  six  and  seven: 

We  wallow  in  our  sin, 

Christ  cannot  find  a  chamber  in  the  inn. 

We  entertain  Him  always  like  a  stranger, 

And  as  at  first  still  lodge  Him  in  the  manger. 


JOHN  MILTON 

HYMN    ON    THE    MORNING    OP   CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY 

It  was  the  Winter  wilde, 
While  the  Heav'n-born-childe, 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 
Nature  in  aw  to  Him 
Had  doff't  her  gawdy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize: 
It  was  no  reason  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  Sun  her  lusty  Paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woo's  the  gentle  Air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  Snow, 
72 


JOHN     MILTON 


And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinfull  blame, 

The  Saintly  Vail  of  Maiden  white  to  throw, 
Confounded,  that  her  Makers  eyes 
Should  look  so  neer  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  He  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyd  Peace, 

She  crown'd  with  Olive  green,  came  softly  slid- 
ing 

Down  through  the  turning  sphear 
His  ready  Harbinger, 

With  Turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing, 
And  waving  wide  her  mirtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universall  Peace  through  Sea  and 
Land. 

No  War,  or  Battails  sound 
Was  heard  the  World  around, 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung; 
The  hooked  Chariot  stood 
Unstain'd  with  hostile  blood, 

The  Trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng, 
And  Kings  sate  still  with  awfull  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 

But  peacefull  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  light 

His  raign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
73 


JOHN     MILTON 


The  Windes  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kist, 

Whispering  new  joyes  to  the  milde  Ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  Birds  of  Calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed 
wave. 

The  Stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixt  in  stedfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  pretious  influence, 
And  will  not  take  their  flight 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn'd  them  thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  Orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  Sun  himself  with-held  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame, 

The  new  enlightn'd  world  no  more  should  need; 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  Throne,  or  burning  Axletree  could 
bear. 

The  Shepherds  on  the  Lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sate  simply  chatting  in  a  rustick  row; 
74 


JOHN     MILTON 


Full  little  thought  they  than, 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  com  to  live  with  them  below; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  els  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busie  keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortall  finger  strook, 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise 

As  all  their   souls  in  blissful  rapture  took: 
The  Air  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echo's  still  prolongs  each  heav'nly 
close. 

Nature  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  Airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  don, 

And  that  her  raign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling; 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  Heav'n  and  Earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  Globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams   the   shame-fac't  night 
array 'd, 

75 


JOHN     MILTON 


The  helmed  Cherubim 
And  sworded  Seraphim, 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displaid, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With  unexpressive  notes    to    Heav'ns  new  -  born 
Heir. 

Such  musick  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  Great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-ballanc't  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel 
keep. 

Ring  out  ye  Crystall  sphears, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so) 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time; 

And  let  the  Base  of  Heav'ns  deep  Organ  blow, 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  th'  Angelike  symphony. 

For  if  such  holy  Song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold, 
76 


JOHN     MILTON 


And  speckl'd  vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould, 
And  Hell  it  self  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering 
day. 


Yea  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Th'  enameld  Arras  of  the  Rain-bow  wearing, 
And  Mercy  set  between, 
Thron'd  in  Celestiall  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  stear- 

ing, 

And  Heav'n  as  at  som  festivall, 
Will   open   wide   the   Gates   of   her  high  Palace 
Hall. 


But  wisest  Fate  sayes  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so, 

The  Babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  Infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss; 

So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorifie: 
Yet  first  to  those  ychain'd  in  sleep 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through 
the  deep, 

77 


JOHN     MILTON 


With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  mount  Sinai  rang 

While  the  red  fire,  and  smouldring  clouds  out 

brake: 

The  aged  Earth  agast 
With  terrour  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  center  shake; 
When  at  the  worlds  last  session, 
The  dreadfull  Judge  in  middle  Air  shall  spread 
His  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins;    for  from  this  happy  day 
Th'  old  Dragon  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway, 
And  wrath  to  see  his  Kingdom  fail, 
Swindges  the  scaly  Horrour  of  his  foulded  tail. 

The  Oracles  are  dumm, 
No  voice  or  hideous  humm 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  inVords  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shreik  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspire's  the  pale-ey'd  Priest  from  the  prophetic 
cell. 

78 


JOHN     MILTON 


The  lonely  mountains  o're, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edg'd  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent, 
With  flowre-inwov'n  tresses  torn 
The  Nimphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets 
mourn. 

In  consecrated  Earth, 
And  on  the  holy  Hearth, 

The  Lars,   and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight 

plaint, 

In  Urns,  and  Altars  round, 
A  drear,  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamins  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  Marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  forgoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor,  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  Temples  dim, 

With  that  twise-batter'd  god  of  Palestine, 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heav'ns  Queen  and  Mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  Tapers  holy  shine, 
The  Libyc  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  Maids  their  wounded  Thamuz 
mourn. 

79 


JOHN     MILTON 


And  sullen  Moloch  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dred, 

His  burning  Idol  all  of  blackest  hue, 
In  vain  with  Cymbals  ring, 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismall  dance  about  the  furnace  blue; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
I  sis  and  Orus,  and  the  Dog  Anubis  hast. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  Grove,  or  Green, 

Trampling  the  unshowr'd  Grasse  with  lowings 

loud: 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest, 

Naught  but  profoundest  Hell  can  be  his  shroud, 
In  vain  with  Timbrel  'd  Anthems  dark 
The    sable  -  stoled    Sorcerers    bear   his   worshipt 

Ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  Land 
The  dredded  Infants  hand, 

The  rayes  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside, 
Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine: 
Our  Babe  to  shew  His  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  His  swadling  bands  controul  the  damned 
crew. 

80 


JEREMY    TAYLOR 


So  when  the  Sun  in  bed 
Curtain 'd  with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  Orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale, 
Troop  to  th'  infernall  jail, 

Each  fetter'd  Ghost  slips  to  his  severall  grave, 
And  the  yellow-skirted  Fayes, 
Fly  after  the  Night-steeds,  leaving  their  Moon- 
lov'd  maze. 

But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 

Time   is   our   tedious   Song   should   here   have 

ending, 

Heav'ns  youngest  teemed  Star, 
Hath  fixt  her  polisht  Car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  Handmaid  Lamp  at- 
tending : 

And  all  about  the  Courtly  Stable, 
Bright-harnest  Angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

JEREMY  TAYLOR 

THE   PRAYER 

My  soul  doth  pant  towards  Thee, 
My  God,  source  of  eternal  life: 
Flesh  fights  with  me; 
Oh,  end  the  strife, 
81 


JEREMY    TAYLOR 


And  part  us,  that  in  peace  I  may 

Unclay 

My  wearied  spirit,  and  take 
My  flight  to  Thy  eternal  spring; 
Where,  for  His  sake 
Who  is  my  King, 
I  may  wash  all  my  tears  away 

That  day. 

Thou  conqueror  of  Death, 
Glorious  triumpher  o're  the  grave, 
Whose  holy  breath 
Was  spent  to  save 
Lost  mankinde,  make  me  to  be  stil'd 

Thy  child, 

And  take  me  when  I  die 
And  go  unto  the  dust;    my  soul 
Above  the  sky 
With  saints  enroll, 
That  in  Thy  arms,  for  ever,  I 

May  lie.     Amen. 


A   HYMN   FOR   CHRISTMAS-DAY 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  come  away! 

Put  on  thy  best  array; 

Least  if  thou  longer  stay, 
Thou  lose  some  minutes  of  so  blest  a  day. 
82 


JEREMY     TAYLOR 


Goe  run, 

And  bid  good  morrow  to  the  sun: 

Welcome  his  safe  return 

To  Capricorn; 

And  that  great  morne 

Wherein  a  God  was  borne, 

Whose  story  none  can  tell 
But  He  Whose  every  word's  a  miracle. 

To-day  Almightiness  grew  weak; 
The    Word     itself    was     mute,    and    could    not 
speak. 

That  Jacob's  star  Which  made  the  sun 

To  dazzle  if  he  durst  look  on, 

Now  mantled  o're  Bethlem's  night, 

Borrowed  a  star  to  show  Him  light. 

He  that  begirt  each  zone, 

To  Whom  both  poles  are  one, 

Who  grasped  the  Zodiac  in  's  hand, 

And  made  it  move  or  stand, 

If  now  by  nature  MAN, 

By  stature  but  a  span; 

Eternitie  is  now  grown  short; 

A  King  is  borne  without  a  court; 

The  water  thirsts;    the  fountain's  dry; 

And  Life,  being  borne,  made  apt  to  dye. 
Chorus.  Then  let  our  prayers  emulate  and  vie 
With  His  humility: 

Since  Hee's  exil'd  from  skeyes 
That  we  might  rise — 
83 


RICHARD    CRASHAW 


From  low  estate  of  men 
Let's  sing  Him  up  again! 
Each  man  winde  up  's  heart 

To  bear  a  part 

In  that  angelick  quire,  and  show 
His  glory  high  as  He  is  low! 
Let's  sing  towards  men  good  will  and  charity, 
Peace  upon  Earth,  glory  to  God  on  high. 
Hallelujah!     Hallelujah! 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

THE   FLAMING   HEART 

Upon  the  book  and  picture  of  the  seraphical  Saint 
Teresa,  as  she  is  usually  expressed  with  a 
Seraphim  beside  her. 

Well-meaning  readers!   you  that  come  as  friends, 
And  catch  the  precious  name  this  piece  pretends; 
Make  not  too  much  haste  to  admire 
That  fair-cheek'd  fallacy  of  fire. 
That  is  a  seraphim,  they  say, 
And  this  the  great  Teresia. 
Readers,  be  ruled  by  me;    and  make 
Here  a  well-placed  and  wise  mistake; 
You  must  transpose  the  picture  quite, 
And  spell  it  wrong,  to  read  it  right; 
84 


RICHARD     CRASHAW 


Read  him  for  her,  and  her  for  him, 
And  call  the  Saint  the  seraphim. 

Painter,  what  didst  thou  understand 
To  put  her  dart  into  his  hand  ? 
See,  even  the  years  and  size  of  him 
Shows  this  the  mother-seraphim. 
This  is  the  mistress-flame;    and  duteous  he 
Her  happy  fire- works,  here,  comes  down  to  see. 
O  most  poor-spirited  of  men! 
Had  thy  cold  pencil  kiss'd  her  pen, 
Thou  couldst  not  so  unkindly  err 
To  show  us  this  faint  shade  for  her. 
Why,  man,  this  speaks  pure  mortal  frame; 
And  mocks  with  female  frost  Love's  manly  flame. 
One  would  suspect  thou  mean'st  to  paint 
Some  weak,  inferior,  woman-saint. 
But  had  thy  pale-faced  purple  took 
Fire    from    the    burning    cheeks    of    that   bright 

book, 

Thou  wouldst  on  her  have  heap'd  up  all 
That  could  be  form'd  seraphical; 
Whate'er  this  youth  of  fire  wears  fair, 
Rosy  fingers,  radiant  hair, 
Glowing  cheeks  and  glist'ring  wings, 
All  those  fair  and  fragrant  things, 
But  before  all,  that  fiery  dart 
Had  fill'd  the  hand  of  this  great  heart. 

Do  then,  as  equal  right  requires: 
Since  his  the  blushes  be,  and  her's  the  fires, 
85 


RICHARD    CRASHAW 


Resume  and  rectify  thy  rude  design; 
Undress  thy  seraphim  into  mine; 
Redeem  this  injury  of  thy  art; 
Give  him  the  veil,  give  her  the  dart. 

Give  him  the  veil,  that  he  may  cover 
The  red  cheek  of  a  rivall'd  lover; 
Ashamed  that  our  world  now  can  show 
Nests  of  new  seraphims  here  below. 

Give  her  the  dart,  for  it  is  she 
(Fair  youth)  shoots  both  thy  shaft  and  thee; 
Say,  all  ye  wise  and  well-pierced  hearts 
That  live  and  die  amidst  her  darts, 
What  is't  your  tasteful  spirits  do  prove 
In  that  rare  life  of  her  and  Love? 
Say,  and  bear  witness.     Sends  she  not 
A  seraphim,  at  every  shot? 
What  magazines  of  immortal  arms  there  shine! 
Heaven's  great  artillery  in  each  love-spun  line. 
Give    then     the    dart    to    her    who    gives    the 

flame; 
Give  him  the  veil,  who  gives  the  shame. 

But  if  it  be  the  frequent  fate 
Of  worse  faults  to  be  fortunate: 
If  all's  prescription;   and  proud  wrong 
Harkens  not  to  an  humble  song; 
For  all  the  gallantry  of  him, 
Give  me  the  suffering  seraphim. 
His  be  the  bravery  of  all  those  bright  things, 
The  glowing  cheeks,  the  glistering  wings; 
86 


RICHARD     CRASHAW 


The  rosy  hand,  the  radiant  dart; 
Leave  her  alone  the  flaming  heart. 

Leave  her  that;    and  thou  shalt  leave  her 
Not  one  loose  shaft,  but  Love's  whole  quiver; 
For  in  Love's  field  was  never  found 
A  nobler  weapon  than  a  wound. 
Love's  passives  are  his  activ'st  part, 
The  wounded  is  the  wounding  heart. 
O  heart !    equal  poise  of  Love's  both  parts 
Big  alike  with  wound  and  darts. 
Live  in  these  conquering  leaves :  live  all  the  same ; 
And  walk  through   all  tongues  one  triumphant 

flame. 

Live  here,  great  heart;  and  love,  and  die,  and  kill; 
And  bleed,  and  wound;  and  yield  and  conquer  still. 
Let  this  immortal  life  wher'er  it  comes 
Walk  in  a  crowd  of  loves  and  martyrdoms. 
Let  mystic  deaths  wait  on't:    and  wise  souls  be 
The  love-slain  witnesses  of  this  life  of  thee. 
O  sweet  incendiary!    show  here  thy  art, 
Upon  this  carcass  of  a  hard  cold  heart; 
Let  all  thy  scattered  shafts  of  light  that  play 
Among  the  leaves  of  thy  large  books  of  day, 
Combined  against  this  breast  at  once  break  in 
And  take  away  from  me  myself  and  sin; 
This  gracious  robbery  shall  thy  bounty  be, 
And  my  best  fortunes  such  fair  spoils  of  me. 
O  thou  undaunted  daughter  of  desires! 
By  all  thy  dower  of  lights  and  fires; 
87 


HENRY    MORE 


By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove; 

By  all  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love; 

By  thy  large  draughts  of  intellectual  day 

And  by  thy  thirsts  of  love,  more  large  than  they; 

By  all  thy  brim-filled  bowls  of  fierce  desire, 

By  thy  last  morning's  draught  of  liquid  fire; 

By  the  full  kingdom  of  that  final  kiss 

That  seized  thy  parting  soul,  and  seal'd  thee  His; 

By  all  the  heav'ns  thou  hast  in  Him 

(Fair  sister  of  the  seraphim!) 

By  all  of  Him  we  have  in  thee; 

Leave  nothing  of  myself  in  me. 

Let  me  so  read  thy  life,  that  I 

Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  die. 

HENRY  MORE 

CHARITY   AND   HUMILITY 

Far  have  I  clambred  in  my  mind 
But  nought  so  great  as  love  I  find; 
Deep-searching  wit,  mount-moving  might, 
Are  nought  compar'd  to  that  good  sprite. 
Life  of  delight  and  soul  of  bliss! 
Sure  source  of  lasting  happiness! 
Higher  then  Heaven!    lower  then  hell! 
What  is  thy  tent  ?     Where  maist  thou  dwell  ? 
My  mansion  hight  humility, 
Heaven's  vastest  capability. 
88 


HENRY    MORE 


The  further  it  doth  downward  tend 
The  higher  up  it  doth  ascend; 
If  it  go  down  to  utmost  nought, 
It  shall  return  with  that  it  sought. 
Lord,  stretch  thy  tent  in  my  strait  breast; 
Enlarge  it  downward,  that  sure  rest 
May  there  be  pight;    for  that  pure  fire 
Wherewith  thou  wontest  to  inspire 
All  self-dead  souls.     My  life  is  gone, 
Sad  solitude  's  my  irksome  wonne. 
Cut  off  from  men  and  all  this  world, 
In  Lethe's  lonesome  ditch  I'm  hurl'd; 
Nor  might  nor  sight  doth  aught  me  move, 
Nor  do  I  care  to  be  above. 
O  feeble  rayes  of  mentale  light! 
That  best  be  seen  in  this  dark  night, 
What  are  you?     What  is  any  strength 
If  it  be  not  laid  in  one  length 
With  pride  or  love?     I  nought  desire 
But  a  new  life,  or  quite  t'  Expire. 
Could  I  demolish  with  mine  eye 
Strong  towers,  stop  the  fleet  stars  in  skie, 
Bring  down  to  earth  the  pale-faced  Moon, 
Or  turn  black  midnight  to  bright  Noon; 
Though  all  things  were  put  in  my  hand, 
As  parch'd,  as  dry  as  th'  Libyan  sand 
Would  be  my  life,  if  Charity 
Were  wanting.     But  Humility 
89 


JOSEPH    BEAUMONT 


Is  more  than  my  poor  soul  durst  crave 
That  lies  entomb'd  in  lowly  grave. 
But  if  'twere  lawful  up  to  send 
My  voice  to  Heaven,  this  should  it  rend. 
"  Lord,  thrust  me  deeper  into  dust, 
That  thou  maist  raise  me  with  the  just." 


JOSEPH  BEAUMONT 

THE   HOUSE    OF   THE   MIND 

Seek  no  more  abroad,  say  I, 
House  and  Home,  but  turn  thine  Eye 
Inward,  and  observe  thy  Breast; 
There  alone  dwells  solid  rest. 
That's  a  close  immured  tower 
Which  can  mock  all  hostile  power. 
To  thyself  a  tenant  be, 
And  inhabit  safe  and  free. 
Say  not  that  this  house  is  small, 
Girt  up  in  a  narrow  wall; 
In  a  cleanly  sober  mind 
Heav'n  itself  full  room  doth  find. 
Th'  infinite  Creator  can 
Dwell  in  it;    and  may  not  Man? 
Here  content  make  thy  abode 
With  thyself  and  with  thy  God. 
90 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

CHILDHOOD 

I  cannot  reach  it;    and  my  striving  eye 
Dazzles  at  it,  as  at  eternity. 

Were  now  that  chronicle  alive, 
Those  white  designs  which  children  drive, 
And  the  thoughts  of  each  harmless  hour, 
With  their  content  too  in  my  pow'r, 
Quick  would  I  make  my  path  ev'n, 
And  by  mere  playing  go  to  heaven. 

Why  should  men  love 
A  wolf,  more  than  a  lamb  or  dove? 
Or  choose  hell-fire  and  brimstone  streams 
Before  bright   stars  and  God's  own  beams? 
Who  kisseth  thorns  will  hurt  his  face, 
But  flowers  do  both  refresh  and  grace; 
And  sweetly  living — fie  on  men! — 
Are,  when  dead,  medicinal  then; 
If  seeing  much  should  make  staid  eyes, 
And  long  experience  should  make  wise; 
Since  all  that  age  doth  teach  is  ill, 
Why  should  I  not  love  childhood  still? 
Why,  if  I  see  a  rock  or  shelf, 
Shall  I  from  thence  cast  down  myself? 
91 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


Or  by  complying  with  the  world, 
From  the  same  precipice  be  hurl'd? 
Those  observations  are  but  foul, 
Which  make  me  wise  to  lose  my  soul. 

And  yet  the  practice  worldlings  call 
Business,  and  weighty  action  all, 
Checking  the  poor  child  for  his  play, 
But  gravely  cast  themselves  away. 

Dear,  harmless  age!    the  short,  swift  span 
Where  weeping  Virtue  parts  with  rran; 
Where  love  without  lust  dwells,  and  bends 
What  way  we  please  without  self-ends. 


An  age  of  mysteries!  which  he 
Must  live  twice  that  would  God's  face  see; 
Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play, 
Angels!   which  foul  men  drive  away. 


How  do  I  study  now,  and  scan 
Thee  more  than  e'er  I  studied  man, 
And  only  see  through  a  long  night 
Thy  edges  and  thy  bordering  light! 
O  for  thy  centre  and  midday! 
For  sure  that  is  the  narrow  way! 
92 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


PEACE 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country 

Far  beyond  the  stars. 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skilful  in  the  wars: 
There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crown'd  with  smiles, 
And  One  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  Friend, 

And — O  my  soul  awake! — 
Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  Peace, 
The  Rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress,  and  thy  ease. 
Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges; 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 
But  One,  who  never  changes, 

Thy  God,  thy  life,  thy  cure. 


93 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


THE   RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shin'd  in  my  angel-infancy! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back — at  that  short  space- 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud,  or  flowre, 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  sev'ral  sin  to  ev'ry  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train; 
94 


HENRY    VAUGHAN 


From  whence  th'  inlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  palm-trees. 
But  ah!   my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


THE   NIGHT 

John,  Cap.  3,  Ver.  2 

Through  that  pure  virgin  shrine, 

That  sacred  veil  drawn  o'er  Thy  glorious  noon, 
That  men  might  look  and  live,  as  glow  -  worms 
shine, 

And  face  the  moon: 
Wise  Nicodemus  saw  such  light 
As  made  him  know  his  God  by  night. 

Most  blest  believer  he! 

Who  in  that  land  of  darkness  and  blind  eyes 
Thy  long-expected  healing  wings  could  see 

When  Thou  didst  rise! 
And,  what  can  never  more  be  done, 
Did  at  midnight  speak  with  the  Sun! 
95 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


O  who  will  tell  me,  where 

He  found  Thee  at  that  dead  and  silent  hour? 
What  hallow 'd  solitary  ground  did  bear 

So  rare  a  flower; 

Within  whose  sacred  leaves  did  lie 
The  fulness  of  the  Deity? 

No  mercy-seat  of  gold, 

No  dead  and  dusty  cherub,  nor  carved  stone, 
But  His  own  living  works  did  my  Lord  hold 

And  lodge  alone; 

Where  trees  and  herbs  did  watch  and  peep 
And  wonder,  while  the  Jews  did  sleep. 

Dear  Night!  this  world's  defeat; 
The  stop  to  busy  fools;  Care's  check  and  curb; 
The  day  of  spirits;   my  soul's  calm  retreat 

Which  none  disturb! 
Christ's  progress,  and  His  prayer-time; 
The  hours  to  which  high  Heaven  doth  chime. 

God's  silent,  searching  flight; 

When  my  Lord's  head  is  fill'd  with  dew,  and  all 
His  locks  are  wet  with  the  clear  drops  of  Night; 

His  still,  soft  call; 

His  knocking-time;    the  soul's  dumb  watch, 
When  spirits  their  fair  kindred  catch. 
96 


HENRY    VAUGHAN 


Were  all  my  loud,  evil  days 
Calm  and  unhaunted  as  is  thy  dark  tent, 
Whose  peace  but  by  some  angel's  wing  or  voice 

Is  seldom  rent; 

Then  I  in  Heaven  all  the  long  year 
Would  keep,  and  never  wander  here. 

But  living  where  the  sun 

Doth  all  things  wake,  and  where  all  mix  and  tire 
Themselves  and  others,  I  consent  and  run 

To  ev'ry  mire; 

And  by  this  world's  ill-guiding  light, 
Err  more  than  I  can  do  by  night. 

There  is  in  God — some  say — 
A  deep,  but  dazzling    darkness;    as  men  here 
Say  it  is  late  and  dusky,  because  they 

See  not  all  clear. 
O  for  that  Night!  where  I  in  Him 
Might  live  invisible  and  dim! 


THE   WORLD 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driv'n  by  the  spheres 
97 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


Like  a  vast  shadow  mov'd;    in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd. 
The  doting  lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain; 
Near  him,  his  lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  flights, 

Wit's  sour  delights; 

With  gloves,  and  knots,  the  silly  snares  of  pleas- 
ure. 

Yet  his  dear  treasure, 
All  scattered  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 

Upon  a  flow'r. 


The  darksome  statesman,  hung  with  weights  and 

woe, 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog,  mov'd  there  so  slow, 

He  did  not  stay,  nor  go; 
Condemning  thoughts — like  sad  eclipses — scowl 

Upon  his  soul, 
And  clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout. 
Yet  digg'd  the  mole,  and  lest  his  ways  be  found, 

Work'd  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey;    but  one  did   see 

That  policy: 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies; 
It  rained  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 

Drank  them  as  free. 
98 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


The  fearful  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sate  pining  all  his  life  there,  did  scarce  trust 

His  own  hands  with  the  dust, 
Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but  lives 

In  fear  of  thieves. 
Thousands  there  were  as  frantick  as  himself, 

And  hugged  each  one  his  pelf; 
The  downright  epicure  plac'd  heav'n  in  sense, 

And  scorn'd  pretence; 
While  others,  slipp'd  into  a  wide  excess, 

Said  little  less; 
The  weaker  sort,  slight,  trivial  wares  enslave, 

Who  think  them  brave; 
And  poor,  despised  Truth  sate  counting  by 

Their  victory. 


Yet    some,   who    all    this    while    did   weep    and 

sing, 
And  sing,  and  weep,  soar'd  up  into  the  ring; 

But  most  would  use  no  wing. 
O  fools — said  I — thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light. 
To  live  in  grots,  and  caves,  and  hate  the  day 

Because  it  shews  the  way; 
The  way,  which  from  this  dead  and  dark  abode 

Leads  up  to  God; 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  sun,  and  be 

More  bright  than  he! 
99 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


But  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whisper'd  thus, 
"This  ring  the  Bride-groom  did  for  none  provide, 

But  for  His  bride." 

John,  Cap.  2,  Ver.  16,  17 

All  that  is  in  tJte  world,  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the 
lust  of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride  of  life,  is  not  of  the 
Father,  but  is  of  the  world. 

And  the  world  passeth  away,  and  the  lusts  thereof; 
but  he  that  doeth  the  will  of  God  abtdeth  for  ever. 


MAN 


Weighing  the  steadfastness  and  state 
Of  some  mean  things  which  here  below  reside, 
Where  birds  like  watchful   clocks,   the     noiseless 
date 

And  intercourse  of  times  divide. 
Where  bees  at   night  get   home   and  hive,   and 
flowres, 

Early  as  well  as  late, 

Rise  with  the  sun,  and  set  in  the  same  bow'rs; 
100 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


ii 

I  would — said  I — my  God  would  give 
The  staidness  of  these  things  to  man;  for  these 
To  His  divine  appointments  ever  cleave, 

And  no  new  business  breaks  their  peace; 
The    birds    nor    sow    nor    reap,    yet    sup    and 
dine; 

The  flowres  without  clothes  live, 
Yet  Solomon  was  never  dressed  so  fine. 

in 

Man  hath  still  either  toys,  or  care; 
He  hath  no  root,  nor  to  one  place  is  tied, 
But  ever  restless  and  irregular 

About  this  earth  doth  run  and  ride, 
He  knows  he  hath  a  home,  but  scarce  knows  where; 

He  says  it  is  so  far, 
That  he  hath  quite  forgot  how  to  go  there. 

IV 

He  knocks  at  all  doors,  strays  and  roams; 
Nay,  hath  not  so  much  wit  as  some  stones  have, 
Which  in  the  darkest  nights  point  to  their  homes, 

By  some  hid  sense  their  Maker  gave; 
Man  is  the  shuttle,  to  whose  winding  quest 

And  passage  through  these  looms 
God  order'd  motion,  but  ordain'd  no  rest. 
101 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


I   WALK'D  THE   OTHER   DAY,   TO  SPEND 
MY   HOUR 

I  walk'd  the  other  day,  to  spend  my  hour, 

Into  a  field, 
Where  I  sometimes  had  seen  the  soil  to  yield 

A  gallant  flowre; 
But  Winter  now  had  ruffled  all  the  bowre, 

And  curious  store 
I  knew  there  heretofore. 

Yet  I,  whose  search  lov'd  now  to  peep  and  peer 

I'  th'  face  of  things, 
Thought  with  myself,  there  might  be  other  springs 

Besides  this  here; 
Which,  like  cold  friends,  sees  us  but  once  a  year; 

And  so  the  flowre 
Might  have  some  other  bowre. 

Then  taking  up  what  I  could  nearest  spy, 

I  digg'd  about 
That  place  where  I  had  seen  him  to  grow  out; 

And  by  and  by 

I  saw  the  warm  recluse  alone  to  lie, 
Where  fresh  and  green 
He  lived  of  us  unseen. 
102 


Many  a  question  intricate  and  rare 

Did  I   there  strow; 
But  all  I  could  extort  was,  that  he  now 

Did  there  repair 
Such  losses  as  befell  him  in  this  air, 

And  would  ere  long 
Come  forth  most  fair  and  young. 

This  past,  I  threw  the  clothes  quite  o'er  his  head! 

And  stung  with  fear 
Of  my  own  frailty,  dropp'd  down  many  a  tear 

Upon  his  bed; 
Then  sighing  whisper'd,  "Happy  are  the  dead! 

What  peace  doth  now 
Rock  him  asleep  below!" 

And  yet,  how  few  believe  such  doctrine  springs 

From  a  poor  root, 
Which  all  the  Winter  sleeps  here  under  foot, 

And  hath  no  wings 
To  raise  it  to  the  truth  and  light  of  things; 

But  is  still  trod 
By  ev'ry  wand'ring  clod. 

O  Thou!     Whose  Spirit  did  at  first  inflame 

And  warm  the  dead, 
And  by  a  sacred  incubation  fed 

With  life  this  frame, 

Which  once  had  neither  being,  form,  nor  name; 
103 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


Grant  I  may  so 
Thy  steps  track  here  below, 

That  in  these  masques  and  shadows  I  may  see 

Thy  sacred  way; 
And  by  those  hid  ascents  climb  to  that  day 

Which  breaks  from  Thee, 
Who  art  in  all  things,  though  invisibly; 

Show  me  Thy  peace, 
Thy  mercy,  love,  and  ease. 

And  from  this  care,  where  dreams  and  sorrows 
reign, 

Lead  me  above, 
Where  light,  joy,  leisure,  and  true  comforts  move 

Without  all  pain; 
There,  hid  in  Thee,  show  me  His  life  again, 

At  whose  dumb  urn 
Thus  all  the  year  I  mourn! 


THE   WORLD   OP   LIGHT 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  ling 'ing  here; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 
104 


HENRY     VAUGHAN 


It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  dress'd, 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope!    and  high  Humility! 
High  as  the  heavens  above; 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  show'd  them 
me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death!   the  jewel  of  the  just, 

Shining  nowhere,  but  in  the  dark; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledg'd  bird's  nest,  may 
know 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
105 


JOHN     DRYDEN 


So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 
themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confin'd  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there; 
But  when  the  hand  that  lock'd  her  up,  gives  room, 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  Thee! 
Resume  Thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass: 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

VENI   CREATOR  SPIRITUS 

Creator  Spirit,  by  Whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come  visit  every  pious  mind; 
Come  pour  Thy  joys  on  humankind; 
106 


JOHN     DRYDEN 


From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 
And  make  Thy  temples  worthy  Thee. 

O  source  of  uncreated  light, 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete! 
Thrice  holy  fount,   thrice  holy  fire, 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire; 
Come,  and  Thy  sacred  unction  bring 
To  sanctify  us,  while  we  sing. 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 
Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy! 
Thou  strength  of  His  Almighty  hand, 
Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 
Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 
Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense, 
And  crown 'st  Thy  gift  with  eloquence. 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthy  parts; 
But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul; 
And,  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 
Then  lay  Thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 
And  practise  all  that  we  believe; 
Give  us  Thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  Thee. 
107 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


Immortal  honour,  endless  fame, 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father's  name; 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died; 
And  equal  adoration  be, 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  Thee. 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

WONDER 

How  like  an  Angel  came  I  down! 

How  bright  are  all  things  here! 
When  first  among  His  works  I  did  appear 

O  how  their  Glory  me  did  crown! 
The  world  resembled  his  Eternity, 

In  which  my  soul  did  walk; 
And  every  thing  that  I  did  see 
Did  with  me  talk. 

The  skies  in  their  magnificence, 

The  lively,  lovely  air, 
Oh  how  divine,  how  soft,  how  sweet,  how  fair! 

The  stars  did  entertain  my  sense, 
And  all  the  works  of  God,  so  bright  and  pure, 

So  rich  and  great  did  seem, 
As  if  they  ever  must  endure 
In  my  esteem. 

108 


THOMAS     TRAHERNE 


A  native  health  and  innocence 

Within  my  bones  did  grow, 
And  while  my  God  did  all  His  Glories  show, 

I  felt  a  vigour  in  my  sense 
That  was  all  Spirit.     I  within  did  flow 

With  seas  of  life,  like  wine; 
I  nothing  in  the  world  did  know 
But  'twas  divine. 


Harsh  ragged  objects  were  concealed, 

Oppressions,  tears  and  cries, 
Sins,     griefs,     complaints,     dissensions,     weeping 

eyes 

Were  hid,  and  only  things  revealed 
Which  heavenly  Spirits  and  the  Angels  prize. 

The  state  of  Innocence 
And  bliss,  not  trades  and  poverties, 
Did  fill  my  sense. 


The  streets  were  paved  with  golden  stones, 

The  boys  and  girls  were  mine, 
Oh  how  did  all  their  lovely  faces  shine! 

The  sons  of  men  were  holy  ones, 
In  joy  and  beauty  they  appeared  to  me, 

And  every  thing  which  here  I  found, 
While  like  an  angel  I  did  see, 
Adorned  the  ground. 
109 


THOMAS     TRAHERNE 


Rich  diamond  and  pearl  and  gold 

In  every  place  was  seen; 
Rare   splendours,    yellow,    blue,    red,    white   and 

green, 

Mine  eyes  did  everywhere  behold. 
Great  Wonders  clothed  with  glory  did  appear, 

Amazement  was  my  bliss, 
That  and  my  wealth  was  everywhere; 
No  joy  to  this! 

Cursed  and  devised  proprieties, 

With  envy,  avarice 

And  fraud,   those  fiends    that   spoil  even   Para- 
dise, 

Flew  from  the  splendour  of  mine  eyes. 
And  so  did  hedges,  ditches,  limits,  bounds, 

I  dreamed  not  aught  of  those, 
But  wandered  over  all  men's  grounds, 
And  found  repose. 

Proprieties  themselves  were  mine, 

And  hedges,  ornaments; 
Walls,  boxes,  coffers  and  their  rich  contents 
Did  not  divide  my  joys,  but  all  combine. 
Clothes,  ribbons,  jewels,  laces,  I  esteemed 

My  joys  by  others  worn: 
For  me  they  all  to  wear  them  seemed 
When  I  was  born. 


THOMAS     TRAHERNE 


THE  APPROACH 

That  childish  thoughts  such  Joys  inspire 

Doth  make  my  wonder  and  His  glory  higher; 

His  Bounty  and  my  Wealth  more  great; 

It  shows  His  kingdom  and  His  Work  complete, 

In  which  there  is  not  anything 

Not  meet  to  be  the  Joy  of  Cherubim. 

He  in  our  childhood  with  us  walks, 

And  with  our  thoughts  Mysteriously  he  talks; 

He  often  visiteth  our  Minds, 

But  cold  acceptance  in  us  ever  finds: 

We  send  Him  often  griev'd  away; 

Else  would  He  shew  us  all  His  Kingdom's  Joy. 

O  Lord  I  wonder  at  Thy  Love, 

Which  did  my  Infancy  so  early  move, 

But  more  at  that  which  did  forbear, 

And  move  so  long,  tho'  slighted  many  a  year: 

But  most  of  all,  at  least  that  Thou 

Thyself  shouldst  me  convert  I  scarce  know  how. 

Thy  Gracious  Motions  oft  in  vain 

Assaulted  me:   my  Heart  did  hard  remain 

Long  time:  I  sent  my  God  away, 

Grieved  much  that  He  could  not  impart  His  joy. 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


I  careless  was,  nor  did  regard 
The  End  for  which  He  all  those  Thoughts  pre- 
pared. 


But  now  with  New  and  Open  Eyes 

I  see  beneath  as  if  above  the  skies; 

And  as  I  backward  look  again, 

See  all  His  thoughts  and  mine  most  clear  and 

plain. 

He  did  Approach,  He  me  did  woo; 
I  wonder  that  my  God  this  thing  would  do. 


From  nothing  taken  first  I  was; 

What   wondrous   Things    His    Glory   brought   to 


pass 


Now  in  this  World  I  Him  behold, 
And  me  enveloped  in  more  than  gold, 
In  deep  Abysses  of  Delights, 
In  present  hidden  precious  Benefits. 


Those  thoughts  His  Goodness  long  before 
Prepared  as  precious  and  Celestial  store, 
With  curious  art  in  me  inlaid, 
That  Childhood  might  itself  alone  be  said 
My  Tutor,  Teacher,  Guide  to  be, 
Instructed  then  even  by  the  Deity. 

112 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


THE  CIRCULATION 

As  fair  ideas  from  the  sky, 

Or  images  of  things, 
Unto  a  spotless  mirror  fly, 

On  un perceived  wings, 
And  lodging  there  affect  the  sense, 
As  if  at  first  they  came  from  thence; 
While  being  there,  they  richly  beautify 
The  place  they  fill,  and  yet  communicate 
Themselves,  reflecting  to  the  seer's  eye; 

Just  such  is  our  estate. 
No  praise  can  we  return  again, 
No  glory  in  ourselves  possess, 
But  what  derived  from  without  we  gain, 
From  all  the  mysteries  of  blessedness. 

No  man  breathes  out  more  vital  air 

Than  he  before  sucked  in: 
Those  joys  and  praises  must  repair 

To  us,  which  'tis  a  sin 
To  bury  in  a  senseless  tomb, 
An  earthly  wight  must  be  the  Heir 
Of  all  those  joys  the  Holy  Angels  prize, 
He  must  a  King  before  a  Priest  become, 
And  gifts  receive  or  ever  sacrifice. 
'Tis  blindness  makes  us  Dumb. 
"3 


THOMAS     TRAHERNE 


Had  we  but  those  celestial  eyes, 
Whereby  we  could  behold  the  sum 
Of  all  His  bounties,  we  should  overflow 
With  praises  did  we  but  their  Causes  know. 

All  things  to  Circulations  owe 
Themselves;    by  which  alone 
They  do  exist;    They  cannot  shew 

A  sigh,  a  word,  a  groan, 
A  colour  or  a  glimpse  of  Light, 
The  sparkle  of  a  precious  stone, 
A  virtue,  or  a  Smell,  a  lovely  sight, 
A  fruit,  a  beam,  an  influence,  a  tear, 
But  they  another's  livery  must  wear, 

And  borrow  matter  first, 
Before  they  can  communicate. 
Whatever's  empty  is  accurst: 
And  this    doth    shew    that   we    must    some    es- 
tate 
Possess,  or  never  can  communicate. 

A  sponge  drinks  in  the  water,  which 

Is  afterwards  exprest. 
A  liberal  hand  must  first  be  rich: 

Who  blesseth  must  be  blest. 
The  thirsty  earth  drinks  in  the  rain, 
The  trees  suck  moisture  at  their  roots, 
Before  the  one  can  lavish  herbs  again, 
Before  the  other  can  afford  us  fruits. 
114 


THOMAS     TRAHERNE 


No  tenant  can  raise  corn  or  pay  his  rent, 
Nor  can  even  have  a  Lord, 

That  has  no  land.     No  spring  can  vent, 

No  vessel  any  wine  afford 
Wherein  no  liquor's  put.     No  empty  purse 
Can  pounds  or  talents  of  itself  disburse. 

Flame  that  ejects  its  golden  beams, 

Sups  up  the  grosser  air; 
To  seas,  that  pour  out  their  streams 

In  springs,  those  streams  repair; 
Receiv'd  ideas  make  even  dreams. 
No  fancy  painteth  foul  or  fair 
But  by  the  ministry  of  inward  light, 
That  in  the  spirit  cherisheth  its  sight. 
The  Moon  returneth  light,  and  some  men  say 

The  very  Sun  no  ray 
Nor  influence  could  have,  did  it 
No  foreign  aids,  no  food  admit. 
The  Earth  no  exhalations  would  afford, 
Were  not  its  spirits  by  the  Sun  restored. 

All  things  do  first  receive,  that  give: 

Only  'tis  God  above, 
That  from  and  in  Himself  doth  live; 

Whose  all-sufficient  love 
Without  original  can  flow 
And  all  the  joys  and  glories  shew 
Which  mortal  man  can  take  delight  to  know. 
"5 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


He  is  the  primitive  eternal  spring 

The  endless  ocean  of  each  glorious  thing. 

The  Soul  a  vessel  is, 
A  spacious  bosom  to  contain 
All  the  fair  treasures  of  His  bliss, 
Which  run  like  Rivers  from,  into  the  main, 
And  all  it  doth  receive  returns  again. 


DESIRE 

For  giving  me  desire, 
An  eager  thirst,  a  burning  ardent  fire, 

A  virgin  infant  flame, 

A  Love  with  which  into  the  world  I  came, 
An  inward  hidden  Heavenly  love, 
Which  in  my  soul  did  work  and  move, 

And  ever  me  inflame 
With  restless  longing,   Heavenly  avarice, 

That  never  could  be  satisfied, 
That  did  incessantly  a  Paradise 
Unknown  suggest,  and  something  undescried 
Discern,  and  bear  me  to  it;   be 
Thy  Name  for  ever  praised  by  me. 

My  parched  and  withered  bones 
Burnt  up  did  seem :   My  Soul  was  full  of  groans : 

My  thoughts  extensions  were: 
Like  paces,  reaches,  steps  they  did  appear: 
116 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


They    somewhat   hotly    did   pursue, 

Knew  that  they  had  not  all  their  due, 

Nor   ever   quiet  were: 
But  made  my  thirst  with  hungry,  thirsty  ground, 

My  heart  a  deep  profound  abyss, 
And  every  joy  and  pleasure  but  a  wound, 
So  long  as  I  my  Blessedness  did  miss. 

O  Happiness!    A  famine  burns, 

And  all  my  life  to  anguish  turns! 


Where  are  the  silent  streams, 
The  living  waters  and  the  glorious  beams, 

The  sweet  reviving  bowers, 

The   shady  groves,  the  sweet  and  curious  flow- 
ers, 

The  spring  and  trees,  the  Heavenly  days, 
The  flow'ry  meads,  and  glorious  rays, 

The  gold  and  silver  towers? 
Alas!  all  these  are  poor  and  empty  things! 

Trees,  waters,  days  and  shining  beams, 
Fruits,  flowers,  bowers,  shady  groves  and  springs, 
No  joy  will  yield,  no  more  than  silent  streams; 
Those  are  but  dead  material  toys, 
And  cannot  make  my  Heavenly  joys. 


O  Love!     Ye  Amities, 

And  friendships  that  appear  above  the  skies! 
117 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


Ye  feasts  and  living  pleasures! 
Ye  senses,  honours  and  imperial  treasures! 

Ye  bridal  joys!    ye  high  delights 

That  satisfy  all  appetites! 
Ye  sweet  affections,  and 
Ye  high  respects!     Whatever  joys  there  be 

In  triumphs,  whatsoever  stand 
In  amicable  sweet  society, 
Whatever  pleasures  are  at  His  right  hand, 

Ye  must  before  I  am  Divine, 

In  full  propriety  be  mine. 


This  soaring,  sacred  thirst, 
Ambassador  of  bliss,  approached  first, 

Making  a  place  in  me 
That    made    me    apt   to    prize,    and    taste,   and 

see. 

For  not  the  objects,  but  the  sense 
Of  things  doth  bliss  to  Souls  dispense, 

And  make  it,  Lord,  like  Thee. 
Sense,  feeling,  taste,  complacency,  and  sight, 

These  are  the  true  and  real  joys, 
The  living,  flowing  inward,  melting,  bright, 
And  Heavenly  pleasures;    all  the  rest  are  toys: 
All  which  are  founded  in  Desire, 
As  light  in  flame  and  heat  in  fire. 


118 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


GOODNESS 

The  bliss  of  other  men  is  my  delight, 
(When  once  my  principles  are  right:) 
And  every  Soul  which  mine  doth  see 

A  treasury. 

The  face  of  God  is  goodness  unto  all, 
And  while  He  thousands  to  His  throne  doth  call, 
While  millions  bathe  in  pleasures, 
And  do  behold  His  treasures, 
The  joys  of  all 
On  mine  do  fall, 
And  even  my  infinity  doth  seem 
A  drop  without  them  of  a  mean  esteem. 

The  light  which  on  ten  thousand  faces  shines, 
The  beams  which  crown  ten  thousand  vines 
With  Glory,  and  Delight,  appear 

As  if  they  were 

Reflected  only  from  them  all  for  me, 
That  I  a  greater  beauty  there  might  see. 
Thus  Stars  do  beautify 
The  azure  canopy: 

Gilded  with  rays 
Ten  thousand  ways 

They  serve  me,  while  the  Sun  that  on  them  shines 

Adorns  those  stars  and  crowns  those  bleeding  vines. 

119 


THOMAS    TRAHERNE 


Where  Goodness  is  within,  the  Soul  doth  reign. 
Goodness  the  only  Sovereign! 
Goodness  delights  alone  to  see 

Felicity. 

And  while  the  Image  of  His  goodness  lives 
In  me,  whatever  He  to  any  gives 
Is  my  delight  and  ends 
In  me,  in  all  my  friends: 
For  goodness  is 
The  spring  of  bliss, 
And  'tis  the  end  of  all  it  gives  away 
And  all  it  gives  it  ever  doth  enjoy. 

His  Goodness!    Lord,  it  is  His  highest  Glory! 
The  very  Grace  of  all  His  story! 
What  other  thing  can  me  delight 

But  the  blest  sight 

Of  His  Eternal  Goodness?     While  His  love, 
His  burning  love  the  bliss  of  all  doth  prove, 
While  it  beyond  the  ends 
Of  Heaven  and  Earth  extends, 
And  multitudes 
Above  the  skies, 

His  Glory,  Love  and  Goodness  in  my  sight 
Is  for  my  pleasure  made  more  infinite. 

The    soft    and    swelling    grapes    that    on    their 

vines 
Receive  the  lively  warmth  that  shines 


JOHN     NORRIS 


Upon  them,  ripen  there  for  me: 

Or  drink  they  be, 

Or  meat.     The  stars  salute  my  pleased  sense 
With  a  derived  and  borrowed  influence: 
But  better  vines  do  grow, 
Far  better  wines  do  flow 

Above,  and  while 
The  Sun  doth  smile 

Upon  the  Lilies  there,  and  all  things  warm; 
Their  pleasant  odours  do  my  spirit  charm. 

Their  rich  affections  me  like  precious  seas 

Of  nectar  and  ambrosia  please. 

Their  eyes  are  stars,  or  more  Divine 

And  brighter  shine: 

Their  lips  are  soft  and  swelling  grapes,  their  tongues 
A  Quire  of  blessed  and  harmonious  songs. 

Their  bosoms  fraught  with  love 

Are  Heavens  all  Heavens  above; 
And  being  Images  of  God  they  are 
The  highest  joys  His  Goodness  did  prepare. 

JOHN  NORRIS 

THE   ASPIRATION 

How  long,  great  God,  how  long  must  I 
Immur'd  in  this  dark  prison  lie? 
Where  at  the  grates  and  avenues  of  sense, 
My  soul  must  watch  to  have  intelligence. 
121 


JOHN    NORRIS 


Where    but    faint     gleams    of    Thee    salute    my 
sight, 

Like  doubtful  moon-shine  in  a  cloudy  night. 
When  shall  I  leave  this  magic  sphere, 
And  be  all  mind,  all  eye,  all  ear? 


How  cold  this  clime!     And  yet  my  sense 
Perceives  even  here  Thy  influence. 
Even  here  Thy  strong  magnetic  charms  I  feel, 
And  pant  and  tremble  like  the  amorous  steel. 
To  lower  good,  and  beauties  less  divine, 
Sometimes  my  erroneous  needle  does  decline; 
But  yet, — so  strong  the  sympathy, — 
It  turns  and  points  again  to  Thee. 


I  long  to  see  this  excellence 

Which  at  such  distance  strikes  my  sense. 
My  impatient  soul  struggles  to  disengage 
Her  wings  from  the  confinement  of  her  cage. 
Would 'st  Thou,  great  Love,  this  prisoner  once  set 

free, 
How  would  she  hasten  to  be  link'd  with  Thee! 

She'd  for  no  angel's  conduct  stay, 

But  fly,  and  love  on  all  the  way. 


122 


ANONYMOUS 


II 


THE   SOUL   WHEREIN   GOD   DWELLS 

The  soul  wherein  God  dwells, — 
What  church  could  holier  be? — 

Becomes  a  walking-tent 
Of  heavenly  majesty. 

How  far  from  here  to  Heaven  ? 

Not  very  far,  my  friend, 
A  single,  hearty  step 

Will  all  the  journey  end. 

Though  Christ  a  thousand  times 

In  Bethlehem  be  born, 
If  He's  not  born  in  thee, 

Thy  soul  is  still  forlorn. 

The  cross  on  Golgotha 

Will  never  save  thy  soul, 
The  cross  in  thine  own  heart 

Alone  can  make  thee  whole. 

Hold  thou !    where  runnest  thou  ? 

Know  heaven  is  in  thee — 
Seek'st  thou  for  God  elsewhere, 

His  face  thou 'It  never  see. 
123 


JOHN    BYROM 


O,  would  thy  heart  but  be 
A  manger  for  His  birth; 

God  would  once  more  become 
A  child  upon  the  earth. 

Go  out,  God  will  go  in, 

Die  thou — and  let  Him  live. 

Be  not — and  He  will  be. 

Wait  and  He'll  all  things  give. 

O,  shame,  a  silk-worm  works 
And  spins  till  it  can  fly, 

And  thou,  my  soul,  wilt  still 
On  thine  old  earth-clod  lie? 


JOHN  BYROM 

MY   SPIRIT   LONGETH    FOR   THEE 

My  spirit  longeth  for  Thee, 
Within  my  troubled  Breast. 

Altho'  I  be  unworthy 
Of  so  Divine  a  Guest. 

Of  so  Divine  a  Guest 

Unworthy  tho'  I  be, 
Yet  has  my  Heart  no  Rest, 

Unless  it  come  from  Thee. 
124 


WILLIAM     BLAKE 


Unless  it  come  from  Thee, 
In  vain  I  look  around; 

In  all  that  I  can  see, 
No  Rest  is  to  be  found. 

No  Rest  is  to  be  found, 
But  in  Thy  Blessed  Love; 

O  let  my  Wish  be  crown'd, 
And  send  It  from  above! 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 

THE   GATES   OF   PARADISE 

Mutual  Forgiveness  of  each  Vice, 
Such  are  the  Gates  of  Paradise, 
Against  the  Accuser's  chief  desire, 
Who  walked  among  the  Stones  of  Fire. 
Jehovah's  Finger  Wrote  The  Law: 
Then  Wept,  then  rose  in  Zeal  and  Awe, 
And  the  Dead  Corpse,  from  Sinai's  heat, 
Buried  beneath  His  Mercy  Seat. 

O,  Christians!  Christians!  tell  me  Why 
You  rear  it  on  your  Altars  high? 

THE   KEYS   OF   THE   GATES 

The  Catterpiller  on  the  Leaf 
Reminds  thee  of  thy  Mother's  Grief. 
My  Eternal  Man  set  in  Repose, 
The  Female  from  his  darkness  rose; 
125 


WILLIAM     BLAKE 


And  She  found  me  beneath  a  Tree 
A  Mandrake,  and  in  her  Veil  hid  me. 
Serpent  reasonings  its  entice 
Of  Good  and  Evil,  Virtue  and  Vice. 
Doubt  Self-Jealous,   Watry  folly 
Struggling  thro'  Earth's  Melancholy, 
Naked  in  Air,  in  Shame  and  Fear, 
Blind  in  Fire,  with  shield  and  spear, 
Two  horrid  reasoning  cloven  fictions, 
In  Doubt  which  is  Self  contradiction, 
A  dark  Hermaphrodite  I  stood, — 
Rational  Truth,  Root  of  Evil  and  Good. 
Round  me,  flew  the  Flaming  Sword; 
Round  her,  snowy  whirlwinds  roar'd, 
Freezing  her  Veil,  the  Mundane  Shell. 
I  rent  the  Veil  where  the  Dead  dwell: 
When  weary  Man  enters  his  Cave 
He  meets  his  Saviour  in  the  Grave. 
Some  find  a  Female  Garment  there, 
And  some  a  Male,  woven  with  care; 
Lest  the  Sexual  Garments  sweet 
Should  grow  a  devouring  Winding-sheet. 
One  dies!  alas!  the  Living  and  Dead! 
One  is  slain!  and  One  is  fled! 
In  Vain-glory  hatcht  and  nurst, 
By  double  Spectres,  Self-Accurst. 
My  Son!  my  Son!  thou  treatest  me 
But  as  I  have  instructed  thee. 
126 


WILLIAM     BLAKE 


On  the  shadows  of  the  Moon, 

Climbing  through  Night's  highest  noon: 

In  Time's  Ocean  falling  drown'd: 

In  Age"d  Ignorance  profound, 

Holy  and  cold,  I  clipped  the  Wings 

Of  all  Sublunary  Things, 

And  in  depths  of  my  Dungeons 

Closed  the  Father  and  the  Sons. 

But  when  once  I  did  descry 

The  Immortal  Man  that  cannot  Die, 

Through  evening  shades  I  haste  away 

To  close  the  Labours  of  my  Day. 

The  Door  of  Death  I  open  found 

And  the  Worm  Weaving  in  the  Ground: 

Thou'rt  my  Mother,  from  the  Womb; 

Wife,  Sister,  Daughter,  to  the  Tomb: 

Weaving  to  Dreams  the  Sexual  strife, 

And  weeping  over  the  Web  of  Life. 


THE   GOLDEN    STRING 

I  give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string: 
Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, — 

It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate 
Built  in  Jerusalem's  wall. 
127 


WILLIAM     BLAKE 


THE   LAMB 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bid  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 


Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee: 
Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

128 


WILLIAM    BLAKE 


THE   TYGER 

Tyger!  tyger!  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  ?  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  Lamb  make  thee? 
129 


WILLIAM     BLAKE 


Tyger!  tyger!  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


A   POISON   TREE 

I  was  angry  with  my  friend: 

I  told  my  wrath,  my  wrath  did  end. 

I  was  angry  with  my  foe: 

I  told  it  not,  my  wrath  did  grow. 

And  I  water'd  it  in  fears, 
Night  and  morning  with  my  tears; 
And  I  sunned  it  with  smiles 
And  with  soft  deceitful  wiles. 

And  it  grew  both  day  and  night, 
Till  it  bore  an  apple  bright; 
And  my  foe  beheld  it  shine, 
And  he  knew  that  it  was  mine, 

And  into  my  garden  stole 
When  the  night  had  veil'd  the  pole: 
In  the  morning  glad  I  see 
My  foe  outstretch'd  beneath  the  tree. 
130 


WILLIAM    BLAKE 


ON   ANOTHER'S   SORROW 

Can  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  fill'd  ? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear  ? 
No,  no!    never  can  it  be! 
Never,   never  can  it  be! 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all 
Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear, — 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast; 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear; 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 

O  no !    never  can  it  be ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be! 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all: 
He  becomes  an  infant  small; 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe; 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by: 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

O!   He  gives  to  us  His  joy, 
That  our  grief  He  may  destroy; 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

THE   RAINBOW 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 
132 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 


IN   EARLY   SPRING 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes, 

While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 

Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure: — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 
To  catch  the  breezy  air; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man? 


ODE   TO   DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 
O  Duty!    if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 
And  calm'st    the    weary    strife   of   frail    human- 
ity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;    who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  Hearts!    without  reproach  or  blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Oh!    if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power!  around 
them  cast. 

134 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  seek    thy  firm    support,   according   to  their 
need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I 
may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Stern  Lawgiver!    yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And   the   most   ancient   heavens,    through   Thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I  call  thee:    I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live 


ODE 

Intimations   of   Immortality  from  Recollections    of 
Early  Childhood 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
136 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no 
more. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 

The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  around  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
'37 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  Shepherd-boy! 


Ye  blessed  creatures,   I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;    I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fullness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day!    if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  Children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;    while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm: — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 
— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 
138 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar: 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds   the  light,  and   whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 
And   no   unworthy   aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A  six-years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 

See,    where    'mid    work    of    his    own    hand    he 

lies, 

Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 
A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy   Soul's  immensity: 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
140 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!     Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 

To  whom  the  grave 
Is  but  a  lonely  bed  without  the  sense  or  sight 

Of  day  or  the  warm  light, 
A  place  of  thought  where  we  in  waiting  lie; 
Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why   with    such   earnest   pains    dost    thou   pro- 
voke 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

O  joy!    that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:    not  indeed 
141 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast  :- 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:    truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never: 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
142 


WILLIAM     WORDSWORTH 

Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  I 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 


JOHN     KEBLE 


To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


JOHN   KEBLE 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  DARLING 

"Father  to  me  Thou  art  and  Mother  dear, 
And  Brother  too,  kind  Husband  of  my  heart. " 

So  speaks  Andromache  in  boding  fear, 

Ere  from  her  last  embrace  her  hero  part — 

So  evermore,  by  Faith's  undying  glow, 

We  own  the  Crucified  in  weal  or  woe. 

Strange  to  our  ears  the  church-bells  of  our  home; 

The  fragrance  of  our  old  paternal  fields 
May  be  forgotten;    and  the  time  may  come 

When  the  babe's  kiss  no  sense  of  pleasure  yields 
144 


JOHN    KEBLE 


E'en  to  the  doting  mother;    but  Thine  own 
Thou  never  canst  forget,  nor  leave  alone. 

There  are  who  sigh  that  no  fond  heart  is  theirs, 
None  loves   them   best  —  O   vain    and    selfish 
sigh! 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  His  love  He  spares — 
The  Father  spares  the  Son,  for  thee  to  die: 

For  thee  He  died — for  thee  He  lives  again: 

O'er  thee  He  watches  in  His  boundless  reign. 

Thou  art  as  much  His  care,  as  if  beside 

Nor  man  nor  angel  liv'd  in  Heaven  or  earth: 

Thus  sunbeams  pour  alike  their  glorious  tide 
To  light  up  worlds,  or  wake  an  insect's  mirth: 

They  shine  and  shine  with  unexhausted  store — 

Thou  art  thy  Saviour's  darling — seek  no  more. 

On  thee  and  thine,  thy  warfare  and  thine  end, 
Even  in  His  hour  of  agony  He  thought, 

When,  ere  the  final  pang  His  soul  should  rend, 
The  ransom 'd  spirits  one  by  one  were  brought 

To  His  mind's  eye — two  silent  nights  and  days 

In  calmness  for  His  far-seen  hour  He  stays. 

Ye  vaulted  cells,  where  martyr'd  seers  of  old 
Far  in  the  rocky  walls  of  Sion  sleep, 

Green  terraces  and  arched  fountains  cold, 

Where  lies  the  cypress  shade  so  still  and  deep, 


JOHN    KEBLE 


Dear  sacred  haunts  of  glory  and  of  woe, 
Help  us,  one  hour,  to  trace  His  musings  high  and 
low: 

One  heart-ennobling  hour!     It  may  not  be: 
Th'  earthly  thoughts  have  pass'd  from  earth 
away, 

And  fast  as  evening  sunbeams  from  the  sea 
Thy  footsteps  all  in  Sion's  deep  decay 

Were  blotted  from  the  holy  ground:    yet  dear 

Is  every  stone  of  hers;  for  Thou  wast  surely  here. 

There  is  a  spot  within  this  sacred  dale 

That  felt  Thee  kneeling — touch'd  Thy  prostrate 
brow: 

One  Angel  knows  it.     O  might  prayer  avail 
To  win  that  knowledge!  sure  each  holy  vow 

Less  quickly  from  th'  unstable  soul  would  fade, 

Offer'd  where  Christ  in  agony  was  laid. 

Might  tear  of  ours  once  mingle  with  the  blood 
That  from  His  aching  brow  by  moonlight  fell, 

Over  the  mournful  joy  our  thoughts  would  brood, 
Till  they  had  fram'd  within  a  guardian  spell 

To  chase  repining  fancies,  as  they  rise, 

Like  birds  of  evil  wing,  to  mar  our  sacrifice. 

So  dreams  the  heart  self -flattering,  fondly  dreams; 
Else  wherefore,  when  the  bitter  waves  o'erflow, 
146 


PERCY     BYSSHE     SHELLEY 

Miss  we  the  light,  Gethsemane,  that  streams 

From  thy  dear  name,  where  in  His  page  of  woe 
It  shines,  a  pale  kind  star  in  winter's  sky? 
Who  vainly  reads  it  there,  in  vain  had  seen  Him 
die. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

DEATH 

Death  is  here  and  death  is  there, 
Death  is  busy  everywhere, 
All  around,  within,  beneath, 
Above  is  death — and  we  are  death. 

Death  has  set  his  mark  and  seal 

On  all  we  are  and  all  we  feel. 

On  all  we  know  and  all  we  fear,   .  .  . 

First  our  pleasures  die — and  then 

Our  hopes,  and  then  our  fears — and  when 

These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due. 

Dust  claims  dust — and  we  die  too. 

All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish, 
Like  ourselves  must  fade  and  perish, 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot — 
Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 
147 


PERCY     BYSSHE     SHELLEY 


EPILOGUE   TO   PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 
At  the  Earth-born 's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  des- 
potism, 

And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through  the 

deep: 

Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dead  endurance,  from  the  slippery,  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony,  springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 

The    serpent    that   would    clasp    her    with    his 

length ; 

These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night; 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent; 
148 


WILLIAM    CULLEN     BRYANT 

To  love,  and  bear;    to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates; 

Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent; 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 

This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory! 


WILLIAM  CULLEN    BRYANT 

THANATOPSIS 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language;    for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 

And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice: — 

149 


WILLIAM     CULLEN     BRYANT 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
.  The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course;    nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image:  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round 

all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 


WILLIAM    CULLEN     BRYANT 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;    yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men — 
The  youth  in  life's  fresh  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  conies  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night 
Scourged    to    his    dungeon,    but,    sustained    and 

soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


RALPH    WALDO  EMERSON 

THE    SPHINX 

The  Sphinx  is  drowsy, 

Her  wings  are  furled; 
Her  ear  is  heavy, 

She  broods  on  the  world. 
"  Who'll  tell  me  my  secret, 

The  ages  have  kept? — 
I  awaited  the  seer, 

While  they  slumbered  and  slept: 

"The  fate  of  the  man-child 

The  meaning  of  man; 
Known  fruit  of  the  unknown; 

Daedalian  plan; 
152 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

Out  of  sleeping  a  waking, 
Out  of  waking  a  sleep; 

Life  death  overtaking; 
Deep  underneath  deep  ? 

"Erect  as  a  sunbeam, 

Upspringeth  the  palm; 
The  elephant  browses, 

Undaunted  and  calm; 
In  beautiful  motion 

The  thrush  plies  his  wings: 
Kind  leaves  of  his  covert 

Your  silence  he  sings. 

"The  waves,  unashamed, 

In  difference  sweet, 
Play  glad  with  the  breezes, 

Old  playfellows  meet; 
The  journeying  atoms, 

Primordial  wholes, 
Firmly  draw,  firmly  drive, 

By  their  animate  poles. 

"Sea,  earth,  air,  sound,  silence. 

Plant,  quadruped,  bird, 
By  one  music  enchanted, 

One  deity  stirred, — 
Each  the  other  adorning, 

Accompany  still; 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

Night  veileth  the  morning, 
The  vapour,  the  hill. 

"The  babe  by  its  mother 

Lies  bathed  in  joy; 
Glide  its  hours  uncounted — 

The  sun  is  its  toy; 
Shines  the  peace  of  all  being, 

Without  cloud,  in  its  eyes; 
And  the  sun  of  the  world 

In  soft  miniature  lies. 

"  But  man  crouches  and  blushes 

Absconds  and  conceals; 
He  creepeth  and  peepeth, 

He  palters  and  steals; 
Infirm,  melancholy, 

Jealous  glancing  around, 
An  oaf,  an  accomplice, 

He  poisons  the  ground. 

"  Out  spoke  the  great  mother, 

Beholding  his  fear; — 
At  the  sound  of  her  accents 

Cold  shuddered  the  sphere: — 
'  Who  has  drugged  my  boy's  cup  ? 

Who  has  mixed  my  boy's  bread  ? 
Who,  with  sadness  and  madness t 

Has  turned  my  child's  head?'  " 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

I  heard  a  poet  answer, 

Aloud  and  cheerfully, 
"Say  on,  sweet  Sphinx!   thy  dirges 

Are  pleasant  songs  to  me. 
Deep  love  lieth  under 

These  pictures  of  time; 
They  fade  in  the  light  of 

Their  meaning  sublime. 

' '  The  fiend  that  man  harries 

Is  love  of  the  Best; 
Yawns  the  pit  of  the  Dragon, 

Lit  by  rays  from  the  Blest. 
The  Lethe  of  nature 

Can't  trance  him  again, 
Whose  soul  sees  the  perfect, 

Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain. 

"To  vision  profounder, 

Man's  spirit  must  dive; 
His  aye-rolling  orbit 

At  no  goal  will  arrive; 
The  heavens  that  now  draw  him 

With  sweetness  untold, 
Once  found, — for  new  heavens 

He  spurneth  the  old. 

"  Pride  ruined  the  angels, 
Their  shame  them  restores; 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

Lurks  the  joy  that  is  sweetest 

In  stings  of  remorse. 
Have  I  a  lover 

Who  is  noble  and  free? — 
I  would  he  were  nobler 

Than  to  love  me. 

"Eterne  alternation 

Now  follows,  now  flies; 
And  under  pain,  pleasure, — 

Under  pleasure,  pain  lies. 
Love  works  at  the  centre, 

Heart-heaving  alway; 
Forth  speed  the  strong  pulses 

To  the  borders  of  day. 

"  Dull  Sphinx,  Jove  keep  thy  five  wits. 

Thy  sight  is  growing  blear: 
Rue,  myrrh,  and  cummin  for  the  Sphinx- 

Her  muddy  eyes  to  clear!" — 
The  old  Sphinx  bit  her  thick  lip, — 

Said,  "  Who  taught  thee  me  to  name? 
I  am  thy  spirit,  yoke-fellow, 

Of  thine  eye  I  am  eyebeam. 

"Thou  art  the  unanswered  question; 

Couldst  see  thy  proper  eye; 
Alway  it  asketh,  asketh; 

And  each  answer  is  a  lie. 
156 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

So  take  thy  quest  through  nature, 
It  through  thousand  natures  ply: 

Ask  on,  thou  clothed  eternity; 
Time  is  the  false  reply." 

Uprose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  crouched  no  more  in  stone; 
She  melted  into  purple  cloud, 

She  silvered  in  the  moon; 
She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame; 

She  flowered  in  blossoms  red; 
She  flowed  into  a  foaming  wave; 

She  stood  Monadnoc's  head. 

Through  a  thousand  voices 
Spoke  the  universal  dame: 

"  Who  telleth  one  of  my  meanings, 
Is  master  of  all  I  am." 


BRAHMA 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
'57 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 

The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 
And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


DAYS 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  faggots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them 

all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 
158 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX    TRENCH 

THE   KINGDOM   OF   GOD 

I  say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 

To  the  first  man  that  thou  mayst  meet 

In  lane,  highway,  or  open  street — 

That  he,  and  we,  and  all  men,  move 

Under  a  canopy  of  love, 

As  broad  as  the  blue  sky  above: 

That  doubt  and  trouble,  fear  and  pain 
And  anguish,  all  are  shadows  vain; 
That  death  itself  shall  not  remain: 

That  weary  deserts  we  may  tread, 
A  dreary  labyrinth  may  thread, 
Through  dark  ways  underground  be  led: 

Yet,  if  we  will  one  Guide  obey, 
The  dreariest  path,  the  darkest  way, 
Shall  issue  out  in  heavenly  day. 

And  we,  on  divers  shores  now  cast, 
Shall  meet,  our  perilous  voyage  past, 
All  in  our  Father's  house  at  last. 
159 


RICHARD     CHENEVIX     TRENCH 

And  ere  them  leave  him,  say  thou  this, 
Yet  one  word  more:    they  only  miss 
The  winning  of  that  final  bliss — 

Who  will  not  count  it  true  that  Love, 
Blessing,  not  cursing,  rules  above, 
And  that  in  it  we  live  and  move. 

And  one  thing  further  make  him  know — 
That  to  believe  these  things  are  so, 
This  firm  faith  never  to  forego — 

Despite  of  all  which  seems  at  strife 
With  blessing,  all  with  curses  rife — 
That  this  is  blessing,  this  is  life. 


NOT   THOU,    FROM    US! 

Not  Thou  from  us,  O  Lord,  but  we 
Withdraw  ourselves  from  Thee. 

When  we  are  dark  and  dead, 
And  Thou  art  covered  with  a  cloud, 
Hanging  before  Thee,  like  a  shroud, 
So  that  our  prayer  can  find  no  way, 
Oh!  teach  us  that  we  do  not  say, 

"Where  is  Thy  brightness  fled?" 
160 


FREDERICK    TENNYSON 

But  that  we  search  and  try 
What  in  ourselves  has  wrought  this  blame; 
For  Thou  remainest  still  the  same, 
But  earth's  own  vapours  earth  may  fill 
With  darkness  and  thick  clouds,  while  still 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky. 


FREDERICK   TENNYSON 

THE  GLORY  OF   NATURE 

If  only  once  the  chariot  of  the  Morn 

Had  scattered  from  its  wheels  the  twilight  dun, 
But  once  the  unimaginable  Sun 
Flashed  godlike  through  perennial  clouds  forlorn, 
And  shown  us  Beauty  for  a  moment  born: 

If  only  once  blind  eyes  had  seen  the  Spring 
Waking  amid  the  triumphs  of  mid-noon; 
But  once  had  seen  the  lovely  Summer  boon 
Pass  by  in  state  like  a  full-robed  king, 
The  waters  dance,  the  woodlands  laugh  and  sing: 

If  only  once  deaf  ears  had  heard  the  joy 

Of  the  wild  birds,  or  morning  breezes  blowing, 
Or  silver  fountains  from  their  caverns  flowing, 

Or  the  deep- voiced  rivers  rolling  by; 

Then  night  eternal  fallen  from  the  sky: 
161 


FREDERICK    TENNYSON 

If  only  once  weird  Time  had  rent  asunder 

The   curtain    of    the    clouds,    and    shown    us 

Night 

Climbing  into  the  awful  Infinite 
Those  stairs  whose  steps  are  worlds,  above  and 

under, 
Glory  on  glory,  wonder  upon  wonder! 

If  Lightnings  lit  the  Earthquake  on  his  way 
But  once,  or  thunder  spake  unto  the  world; 
The    realm  -  wide    banners     of    the    Wind    un- 
furled ; 

Earth-prisoned  fires  broke  loose  into  the  day; 

Or  the  great  seas  awoke — then  slept  for  aye! 

Ah!  sure  the  heart  of  Man,  too  strongly  tried 
By  Godlike  Presences  so  vast  and  fair. 
Withering    with    dread,    or    sick    with    love's 

despair, 

Had  wept  for  ever,  and  to  heaven  cried, 
Or,  struck  with  lightnings  of  delight  had  died  I 

But  he,  though  heir  of  Immortality, 

With  mortal  dust  too  feeble  for  the  sight, 
Draws  through  a  veil  God's  overwhelming  light: 
Use  arms  the  soul — anon  there  moveth  by 
A  more  majestic  Angel — and  we  die! 


162 


ALFRED     TENNYSON 


ALFRED    TENNYSON 

WAGES 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be   lost  on  an 

endless  sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the 

wrong — 
Nay    but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of 

glory  she; 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death:   if  the  wages  of  Virtue 

be  dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of 

the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of 

the  just. 

To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  sum- 
mer sky; 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


BROKEN    LIGHTS 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  Thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove; 
163 


ALFRED    TENNYSON 


Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death;    and  lo,  Thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  Thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust: 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why, 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  Thou  hast  made  him:    Thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  Thou: 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  Thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  Thee, 

And  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith;    we  cannot  know; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  Thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness;    let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 
164 


ALFRED     TENNYSON 


But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight; 
We  mock  Thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 
But  help  Thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  Thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  Thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  Thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  Thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  Thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


LAST   LINES 

When  the  dumb  hour,  clothed  in  black, 
Brings  the  dreams  about  my  head, 
Call  me  not  so  often  back, 
Silent  voices  of  the  dead, 
165 


ALFRED     TENNYSON 


Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me 
And  the  sunlight  that  is  gone! 
Call  me  rather,  silent  voices, 
Forward  to  the  starry  track 
Glimmering   up  the  heights   beyond  me 
On,  and  always  on! 


CROSSING   THE    BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 

When  I  embark; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 
1 66 


JOHN     GREENLEAF     WHITTIER 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

THE   WAITING 

I  wait  and  watch:    before  my  eyes 

Methinks  the  night  grows  thin  and  gray; 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 

To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day! 

Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in  trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of  snowf 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 

And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me: 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 
167 


JOHN     GREENLEAF     WHITTIER 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 

And  yet  not  mine  if  understood: 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

O  power  to  do!     O  baffled  will! 

O  prayer  and  action!  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done! 


INVOCATION 

Through  Thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of  old, 
Formless  and  void  the  dead  earth  rolled; 
Deaf  to  Thy  heaven's  sweet  music,  blind 
To  the  great  lights  which  o'er  it  shined; 
No  sound,  no  ray,  no  warmth,  no  breath, 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame, — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 
Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 
1 68 


OLIVER     WENDELL     HOLMES 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and  sea; 
Then  smiled  the  bloom  of  mead  and  tree; 
From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to  man, 
The  quick  creative  impulse  ran; 
And  earth,  with  life  from  Thee  renewed, 
Was  in  Thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 
And  formless  as  the  earth  of  old,  — 
A  wandering  waste  of  storm  and  night, 
Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of  light, 
A  blot  upon  Thy  holy  sky, 
Untouched,  unwarned  of  Thee,  am  I. 

O  Thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 
Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep! 
Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may  be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  Thee. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 

THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 
169 


OLIVER     WENDELL     HOLMES 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream- 
ing hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl! 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the 
old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings: — 

170 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  rolll 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting 
sea! 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

CONSOLATION 

All  are  not  taken;    there  are  left  behind 
Living  Beloveds,  tender  looks  to  bring 
And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy  thing, 
And  tender  voices,  to  make  soft  the  wind: 
But  if  it  were  not  so — if  I  could  find 
No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comforting, 
Nor  any  path  but  hollowly  did  ring 
Where  "dust  to  dust"  the  love  from  life  disjoined, 
And  if,  before  those  sepulchres  unmoving 
I  stood  alone,  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 
Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  in  weary  dearth,) 
Crying  "Where  are  you,  O  my  loved  and  loving?" 
I  know  a  Voice  would  sound,  "Daughter,  i  AM. 
Can  I  suffice  for  HEAVEN  and  not  for  earth?" 
171 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING 


THE   SLEEP 


"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

— Psalm  cxxvii :  2. 


Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this: 

"He  giveth  His  belov6d  sleep"? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows? 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 
And  bitter  memories  to  make 
The  whole  world  blasted  for  our  sake: 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 
172 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

"Sleep  soft,  beloved!"  we  sometimes  say, 
Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep: 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

O  earth  so  full  of  dreary  noises! 
O  men  with  wailing  in  your  voices! 

O  delved  gold,  the  waiters  heap! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 

Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap: 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


Ay,  men  may  wonder  when  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 

Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 
173 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would,  childlike,  on  His  love  repose, 

Who  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say  "Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall! 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


\\ 


Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  Foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall. 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 

I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes  and 
forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past, 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave. 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O,  thou  soul  of  my  soul !    I  shall  clasp  thee  again 

And  with  God  be  the  rest. 

EPILOGUE 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think, 

imprisoned — 

Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you 
loved  so, 

— Pity  me? 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken! 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly  ? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 

One  who  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast 

forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong 

would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — fight  on,  fare 
ever 

There  as  here!" 


RABBI    BEN   EZRA 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  "  A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half;   trust  God:   see  all  nor  be 
afraid!" 

176 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth  sighed  "  Which  rose  make  ours, 

Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  tran- 
scends them  all!" 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate:   folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 

As  sure  an  end  to  men; 

Irks  care   the   crop-full   bird?     Frets   doubt   the 
maw-crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must 
believe. 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;    dare,  never  grudge 
the  throe! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What   I   aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink 
i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way  ? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn: 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to 
live  and  learn"? 

178 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  Thine! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 
I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too: 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan: 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man! 

Maker,    remake,   complete  —  I    trust  what  Thou 
shalt  do!" 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest; 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute — gain  most,  as  we  did  best! 

Let  us  not  always  say 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole!" 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 

Let  us  cry  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than 
flesh  helps  soul!" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term: 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;    a  god  though  in  the 
germ. 

179 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;   I  shall  know,  being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 

A  whisper  from    the   west 

Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its   worth :    here    dies    another 
day." 

So,  still  within  this  life, 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 
That  acquiescence  vain: 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the 
Past." 

180 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of   the    proper   craft,    tricks   of   the   tool's 
true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 
Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 
Toward    making,    than    repose    on    aught    found 
made: 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedest  age:    wait  death  nor 
be  afraid! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 
And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine 
own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel 
alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 
181 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right  ?     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace 
at  last! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me:   we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  and  I  that:  whom  shall  my  soul 
believe  ? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 
Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
Things   done,   that   took    the   eye    and   had   the 
price; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand. 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a 
trice: 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled   the 
man's  amount: 

182 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 
Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke    through    language    and    es- 
caped; 

All  I  could  never  be, 
All  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher 
shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor!    and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 

When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;    the  Past  gone, 
seize  to-day!" 

Fool!    All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall; 

Earth   changes,    but   thy    soul    and   God    stand 
sure: 

What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter  and  clay 
endure. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 
183 


ROBERT     BROWNING 


This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest: 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try   thee   and   turn   thee  forth,   sufficiently   im- 
pressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress  ? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The    Master's   lips    a-glow! 

Thou,  heaven's   consummate    cup,  what    need'st 
thou  with  earth's  wheel? 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 
Did  I, — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound   dizzily — mistake  my  end,   to   slake  Thy 
.thirst: 

184 


AUBREY     DE     VERE 


So,  take  and  use  Thy  work: 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 
What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the 
aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete 
the  same! 


AUBREY    DE    VERE 

MAY   CAROLS 


Who  feels  not,  when  the  Spring  once  more 
Stepping  o'er  Winter's  grave  forlorn 

With  wing6d  feet,  retreads  the  shore 
Of  widowed  earth,  his  bosom  burn? 

As  ordered  flower  succeeds  to  flower, 
And  May  the  ladder  of  her  sweets 

Ascends,  advancing  hour  by  hour 

From  scale  to  scale,  what  heart  but  beats? 

Some  Presence  veiled,  in  fields  and  groves, 
That  mingles  rapture  with  remorse; 

Some  buried  joy  beside  us  moves, 

And  thrills  the  soul  with  such  discourse 

185 


AUBREY     DE     VERB 


As   they,   perchance,    that  wondering   pair 
Who  to  Emmaus  bent  their  way, 

Hearing,  heard  not.     Like  them  our  prayer 
We  make — "The  night  is  near  us — Stay!" 

With  Paschal  chants  the  churches  ring: 
Their  echoes  strike  along  the  tombs; 

The  birds  their  hallelujahs  sing; 

Each  flower  with  floral  incense  fumes. 

Our  long -lost  Eden  seems  restored; 

As  on  we  move  with  tearful  eyes 
We  feel  through  all  the  illumined  sward 

Some  upward- working  Paradise. 


ii 

Three  worlds  there  are: — the  first  of  Sense- 
That  sensuous  earth  which  round  us  lies; 

The  next  of  Faith's  Intelligence: 
The  third  of  Glory  in  the  skies. 

The  first  is  palpable,  but  base: 

The  second  heavenly,  but  obscure; 

The  third  is  starlike  in  the  face — 
But  ah!    remote  that  world  as  pure! 

Yet,  glancing  through  our  misty  clime. 
Some  sparkles  from  that  loftier  sphere 
186 


THOMAS     TOKE     LYNCH 

Make  way  to  earth;    then  most  what  time 
The  annual  spring  flowers  reappear. 

Amid  the  coarser  needs  of  earth 

All  shapes  of  brightness,  what  are  they 

But  wanderers,  exiled  from  their  birth, 
Or  pledges  of  a  happier  day? 

Yea,  what  is  Beauty,  judged  aright, 
But  some  surpassing,  transient  gleam; 

Some  smile  from  heaven,  in  waves  of  light, 
Rippling  o'er  life's  distempered  dream? 

Or  broken  memories  of  that  bliss 

Which  rushed  through  first-born  Nature's  blood 
When  He  who  ever  was,  and  is, 

Looked  down  and  saw  that  all  was  good? 


THOMAS  TOKE  LYNCH 

REST 

The  day  is  over, 

The  feverish,  careful  day: 
Can  I  recover 

Strength  that  has  ebbed  away? 
Can  ever  sleep  such  freshness  give, 
That  I  again  should  wish  to  live? 
187 


THOMAS    TOKE     LYNCH 

Let  me  lie  down, 

No  more  I  seek  to  have 
A  heavenly  crown, 

Give  me  a  quiet  grave; 
Release,  and  not  reward,  I  ask, — 
Too  hard  for  me  life's  heavy  task. 

Now  let  me  rest, 

Hushed  be  my  striving  brain, 
My  beating  breast; 

Let  me  put  off  my  pain, 
And  feel  me  sinking,  sinking  deep 
Into  an  abyss  of  sleep. 

The  morrow's  noise, 

Its  aguish  hope  and  fear, 
Its  empty  joys, 

Of  these  I  shall  not  hear; 
Call  me  no  more,  I  cannot  come; 
I'm  gone  to  be  at  rest,  at  home. 

Earth  undesired, 

And  not  for  heaven  meet; 
For  one  so  tired 

What's  left  but  slumber  sweet, 
Beneath  a  grassy  mound  of  trees, 
Or  at  the  bottom  of  the  seas? 
188 


THOMAS    TOKE     LYNCH 

Yet  let  me  have, 

Once  in  a  thousand  years, 
Thoughts  in  my  grave, 

To  know  how  free  from  fears 
I  sleep,  and  that  I  there  shall  lie 
Through  undisturbed  eternity. 

And  when  I  wake, 

Then  let  me  hear  above 
The  birds  that  make 

Songs  not  of  human  love: 
Or  muffled  tones  my  ear  may  reach, 
Of  storms  that  sound  from  beach  to  beach. 


But  hark!    what  word 

Breathes  through  this  twilight  dim? 

' '  Rest  in  the  Lord , 

Wait  patiently  for  Him; 
Return.  O  soul,  and  thou  shalt  have 
A  better  rest  than  in  thy  grave." 

My  God,  I  come; 

But  I  was  sorely  shaken: 
Art  Thou  my  home  ? 

I  thought  I  was  forsaken: 
I  know  Thou  art  a  sweeter  rest 
Than  earth's  soft  side  or  ocean's  breast. 
189 


THOMAS     TOKE     LYNCH 

Yet  this  my  cry! — 

"I  ask  no  more  for  heaven, 
Now  let  me  die, 

For  I  have  vainly  striven." 
I  had,  but  for  that  word  from  Thee, 
Renounced  my  immortality. 

Now  I  return; 

Return,  O  Lord,  to  me; 
I  cannot  earn 

That  heaven  I'll  ask  of  Thee; 
But  with  Thy  Peace  amid  the  strife, 
I  still  can  live  in  hope  of  Life. 

The  careful  day, 

The  feverish  day  is  over; 
Strength  ebbed  away, 

I  lie  down  to  recover; 
With  sleep  from  Him,  I  shall  be  blest, 
Whose  word  has  brought  my  sorrows  rest. 


MODULATIONS 

My  God,  I  love  the  world, 

I  love  it  well — 
Its  wonder,  and  fairness,  and  delight — 

More  than  my  tongue  can  tell; 
190 


THOMAS    TOKE     LYNCH 

And  ever  in  my  heart,  like  morning  clouds 
New  earth-loves  rise  and  swell. 

Lilies  I  love,  and  stars, 

Dewdrops,  and  the  great  sea; 

Colour,  and  form,  and  sound, 
Combining  variously; 

The  rush  of  the  wind,  and  the  overhanging 

vast — 
Voiceless  immensity. 

Thou  world-creator  art, 

World- lover  too; 
In  delight  didst  found  the  deep, 

In  delight  uprear  the  blue; 
And  with  an  infinite  love  and  carefulness 

The  wide  earth  furnish  through. 

My  God,  I  am  afraid  of  Thee,  I  am  afraid — 
Thou  art  so  silent,  and  so  terrible; 
And  oft  I  muse  upon  Thee  in  the  deep  night  dead, 
Listening  as  for  a  voice  that  shall  my  spirit 

tell, 

To  be  of  comfort  and  of  courage,  for  that  all 
is  well. 

Of  thoughts  uncounted  as  the  stars, 
Which  burn  undimm'd  from  old  eternity, 
Oh,  everlasting  God! 

Thy  Spirit  is  a  sky-^ 
191 


WALT     WHITMAN 


A  brighten'd  dark,  enrounding  every  world 

With  stillness  of  serenest  majesty: 
Fit  several  forms  of  the  same  splendour 
Thou  to  beholding  worlds  dost  render, 
In  starry  wonder  of  a  thousand  skies, 
Beheld  by  creature-eyes: 

Who  in  the  glorious  part  have  symbol  bright 
Of  the  uncomprehended  Infinite. 

But  if  as  the  great  dark  art  Thou,  unknown, 
Thou,  God  reveal'd,  art  as  the  sweet  noon  blue; 

Soft  canopying  mercy  in  the  Christ  is  shown, 
And  the  azure  of  His  love  Thy  face  beams 
through, 

Looking  forth,  like  the  sun,  to  comfort  and  to  bless, 

And  with  beauty  overlighting  the  rough  wilderness. 


WALT    WHITMAN 

DEATH    CAROL 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death, 
Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  ar- 
riving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later,  delicate  Death. 
192 


WALT     WHITMAN 


Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge 

curious ; 
And   for   love,    sweet   love — But    praise!    praise! 

praise ! 
For   the    sure-enwinding    arms    of    cool-enfolding 

Death. 

Dark  Mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  wel- 
come? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee — I  glorify  thee  above 
all; 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed 
come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach,  strong  Deliveress! 

When  it  is  so — when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joy- 
ously sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving,  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss,  O  Death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose,  saluting  thee — adorn- 
ments and  f eastings  for  thee; 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape,  and  the  high- 
spread  sky,  are  fitting, 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thought- 
ful night. 

193 


WALT     WHITMAN 


The  night,  in  silence,  under  many  a  star; 

The  ocean  shore,  and  the  husky  whispering  wave, 
whose  voice  I  know; 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee,  O  vast  and  well- 
veil' d  Death, 

And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song! 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves — over  the  myr- 
iad fields,  and  the  prairies  wide; 

Over  the  dense-pack'd  cities  all,  and  the  teeming 
wharves  and  ways, 

I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee,  O 
Death! 


GODS 

Thought  of  the  Infinite — the  All! 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Lover  Divine,  and  Perfect  Comrade! 
Waiting,  content,  invisible  yet,  but  certain, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Thou — thou,  the  Ideal  Man! 
Fair,  able,  beautiful,  content,  and  loving, 
Complete  in  Body,  and  dilate  in  Spirit, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

194 


WALT     WHITMAN 


O  Death — (for  Life  has  served  its  turn;) 
Opener  and  usher  to  the  heavenly  mansion! 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Aught,  aught,  of  mightiest,  best,  I  see,  conceive, 

or  know, 
(To  break  the  stagnant  tie — thee,  thee  to  free,  O 

Soul,) 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Or  thee,  Old  Cause,  whene'er  advancing; 
All  great  Ideas,  the  races'  aspirations, 
All  that  exalts,  releases  thee,  my  Soul! 
All  heroisms,  deeds  of  rapt  enthusiasts, 
Be  ye  my  Gods! 

Or  Time  and  Space! 

Or  shape  of  Earth,  divine  and  wondrous! 
Or  shape  in  I  myself — or  some  fair  shape,  I,  view- 
ing, worship, 

Or  lustrous  orb  of  Sun,  or  star  by  night: 
Be  ye  my  Gods. 


CHANTING   THE    SQUARE   DEIFIC 

Chanting  the  square  deific,  out  of  the  One  ad- 
vancing, out  of  the  sides; 

Out  of  the  old  and  new — out  of  the  square  entirely 
divine, 

195 


WALT     WHITMAN 


Solid,  four-sided,  (all  the  sides  needed)  .  .  .  from 

this  side  JEHOVAH  am  I, 
Old  Brahm  I,  and  I  Saturnius  am; 
Not  Time  affects  me — I  am  Time,  old,  modern 

as  any; 
Unpersuadable,     relentless,     executing    righteous 

judgments; 
As  the  Earth,  the  Father,  the  brown  old  Kronos, 

with  laws, 
Aged  beyond  computation — yet  ever  new — ever 

with  those  mighty  laws  rolling, 
Relentless,  I  forgive  no  man — whoever  sins,  dies 

— I  will  have  that  man's  life; 
Therefore,  let  none  expect  mercy — Have  the  sea- 
sons, gravitation,  the  appointed  days,  mercy  ? 

— No  more  have  I; 
But  as  the  seasons,  and  gravitation — and  as  all 

the  appointed  days,  that  forgive  not, 
I  dispense  from  this  side  judgments  inexorable, 

without  the  least  remorse. 

Consolator    most    mild,    the    promis'd    one    ad- 
vancing, 

With  gentle  hands  extended — the  mightier  God 
am  I, 

Foretold  by  prophets  and  poets,  in  their  most 
rapt  prophecies  and  poems; 

From  this  side,   lo!    the   Lord  Christ  gazes — lo! 

Hermes  I — lo!    mine  is  Hercules'  face; 

196 


WALT     WHITMAN 


All  sorrow,  labour,  suffering,  I,  tallying  it,  absorb 

in  myself; 
Many  times  have  I  been  rejected,  taunted ,  put  in 

prison,  and  crucified — and  many  times  shall 

be  again; 
All  the  world  have  I  given  up  for  my  dear  brothers' 

and  sisters'  sake — for  the  soul's  sake; 
Wending   my  way   through   the   homes  of   men, 

rich  or  poor,  with  the  kiss  of  affection; 
For    I    am    affection — I    am    the    cheer-bringing 

God,  with  hope,  and  all-enclosing  Charity; 
(Conqueror   yet — for    before    me    all    the    armies 

and  soldiers  of  the  earth  shall  yet  bow — and 

all  the  weapons  of  war  become  impotent:) 
With  indulgent  words,  as  to  children — with  fresh 

and  sane  words,  mine  only; 
Young  and  strong   I   pass,    knowing   well   I   am 

destin'd  myself  to  an  early  death: 
But  my  Charity  has  no  death — my  Wisdom  dies 

not,  neither  early  nor  late, 

And  my  sweet  Love,  bequeath'd  here  and  else- 
where, never  dies. 


Aloof,  dissatisfied,  plotting  revolt, 
Comrade  of  criminals,  brother  of  slaves, 
Crafty,  despised,  a  drudge,  ignorant, 
With  sudra  face  and  worn  brow,  black,  but  in  the 
depths  of  my  heart,  proud  as  any; 
197 


WALT     WHITMAN 


Lifted,  now  and  always,  against  whoever,  scorn- 
ing, assumes  to  rule  me; 

Morose,  full  of  guile,  full  of  reminiscences,  brood- 
ing, with  many  wiles, 

(Though  it  was  thought  I  was  baffled  and  dispell'd, 
and  my  wiles  done — but  that  will  never  be;) 

Defiant,  I,  SATAN,  still  live — still  utter  words — in 
new  lands  duly  appearing,  (and  old  ones  also;) 

Permanent  here,  from  my  side,  warlike,  equal 
with  any,  real  as  any, 

Nor  time,  nor  change,  shall  ever  change  me  or  my 
words. 

Santa  SPIRITA,  breather,  life, 

Beyond  the  light,  lighter  than  light, 

Beyond  the  flames  of  hell — joyous,  leaping  easily 
above  hell; 

Beyond  Paradise — perfumed  solely  with  mine  own 
perfume; 

Including  all  life  on  earth — touching,  including 
God — including  Saviour  and  Satan; 

Ethereal,  pervading  all,  (for  without  me,  what 
were  all  ?  what  were  God  ?) 

Essence  of  forms — life  of  the  real  identities,  per- 
manent, positive,  (namely  the  unseen,) 

Life  of  the  great  round  world,  the  sun  and  stars, 
and  of  man — I,  the  general  Soul, 

Here  the  square  finishing,  the  solid,  I  the  most  solid, 

Breathe  my  breath  also  through  these  songs. 
198 


ARTHUR     HUGH     CLOUGH 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

HELP 

When  the  enemy  is  near  thee, 

Call  on  us! 

In  our  hands  we  will  upbear  thee, 
He  shall  neither  scathe  nor  scare  thee, 
He  shall  fly  thee  and  shall  fear  thee. 

Call  on  us! 

Call   when   all   good   friends   have  left   thee, 
Of  all  good  sights  and  sounds  bereft  thee, 
Call  when  hope  and  heart  are  sinking, 
When  the  brain  is  sick  with  thinking, 
Help,   O  help! 

When  the  panic  comes  upon  thee, 
When  necessity  seems  on  thee, 
Hope  and  choice  have  all  foregone  thee, 
Fate  and  force  are  closing  o'er  thee, 
And  but  one  way  stands  before  thee, 
Call  on  us! 

O,  and  if  thou  dost  not  call, 
Be  but  faithful,  that  is  all! 
Go  right  on,  and  close  behind  thee 
There  shall  follow  still,  and  find  thee, 
Help,  sure  help! 
199 


GEORGE     ELIOT 


SURETY 

Though  to  the  vilest  things  beneath  the  moon 

For  poor  Ease'  sake  I  give  away  my  heart, 

And  for  the  moment's  sympathy  let  part 

My  sight  and  sense  of  truth,  Thy  precious  boon, 

My  painful  earnings,  lost,  all  lost,  as  soon, 

Almost,  as  gained;    and  though  aside  I  start, 

Belie  Thee  daily,  hourly, — still  Thou  art, 

Art  surely  as  in  heaven  the  sun  at  noon; 

How  much  so  e'er  I  sin,  whate'er  I  do 

Of  evil,  still  the  sky  above  is  blue, 

The  stars  look  down  in  beauty  as   before: 

It  is  enough  to  walk  as  best  we  may, 

To  walk,  and,  sighing,  dream  of  that  blest  day 

When  ill  we  cannot  quell  shall  be  no  more. 


GEORGE  ELIOT 

"O  MAY   I   JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE" 

Longum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  era,  magis  me  movet,  quam 
hoc  exiguum. — Cicero,  Ad  Alt.,  xii:  18. 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:    live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 


GEORGE     ELIOT 


In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like 

stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven: 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world. 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 


EMILY     BRONTE 


Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have   made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


EMILY  BRONTE 

LAST   LINES 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled  sphere: 

I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  Thee! 


EMILY     BRONTE 


Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts:  unutterably  vain; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity; 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,   sustains,  dissolves,   creates,    and    rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  no  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void: 

Thou — THOU  are  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  THOU  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 
203 


EMILY     BRONTE 


THE   PRISONER 

Still,  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doomed  to 

wear 

Year  after  year  in  gloom,  and  desolate  despair; 
A  messenger  of  Hope  comes  every  night  to  me, 
And  offers  for  short  life,  eternal  liberty. 

He    comes   with    western    winds,    with   evening's 

wandering  airs, 
With  that  clear  dusk  of  heaven  that  brings  the 

thickest  stars. 

Winds  take  a  pensive  tone,  and  stars  a  tender  fire, 
And  visions  rise,  and  change,  that  kill  me  with 

desire. 

Desire  for  nothing  known  in  my  maturer  years, 
When  Joy  grew  mad  with  awe,  at  counting  future 

tears. 

When,  if  my  spirit's  sky  was  full  of  flashes  warm, 
I  knew  not  whence  they  came,  from  sun  or  thun- 
der-storm. 

But  first,  a  hu'sh  of  peace — a  soundless  calm  de- 
scends; 

The  struggle    of  distress    and    fierce    impatience 
ends; 

204 


EMILY    BRONTE 


Mute  music  soothes  my  breast — unuttered  har- 
mony, 

That  I  could  never  dream,  till  Earth  was  lost  to 
me. 

Then  dawns  the  Invisible;    the  Unseen  its  truth 

reveals, 

My  outward  sense  is  gone,  my  inward  essence  feels : 
Its  wings  are  almost  free — its  home,  its  harbour 

found, 
Measuring  the  gulf,  it  stoops  and  dares  the  final 

bound. 

Oh!  dreadful  is  the  check — intense  the  agony — 
When  the  ear  begins  to  hear,  and  the  eye  begins 

to  see; 
When  the  pulse  begins  to  throb,  the  brain  to  think 

again ; 
The  soul  to  feel  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  to  feel  the 

chain. 

Yet  I  would  lose  no  sting,  would  wish  no  torture 

less; 
The  more  that  anguish  racks,  the  earlier  it  will 

bless ; 
And  robed  in  fires  of  hell,  or  bright  with  heavenly 

shine, 

If  it  but  herald  death,  the  vision  is  divine! 
205 


DORA     GREENWELL 


DORA  GREENWELL 

THE   SEARCH 

C&lo  tegitur  qui  non  habet  urnam. 

In  Spring  the  green  leaves  shoot, 
In  Spring  the  blossoms  fall, 
With  Summer  falls  the  fruit, 
The  leaves  in  Autumn  fall, 
Contented  from  the  bough 
They  drop,  leaves,  blossoms  now, 
And  ripen 'd  fruit;   the  warm  earth  takes  them  all. 

Thus  all  things  ask  for  rest, 
A  home  above,  a  home  beneath  the  sod; 
The  sun  will  seek  the  west, 
The  bird  will  seek  its  nest, 
The  heart  another  breast 
Whereon  to  lean,  the  spirit  seeks  its  God. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

EAST   LONDON 

'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 
Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Bethnal  Green, 
And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his  windows  seen 
In  Spitalfields,  look'd  thrice  dispirited. 
206 


MATTHEW     ARNOLD 


I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said: 
"  111  and  o'erwork'd,  how  fare  you  in  this  scene  ?" — 
"Bravely!"  said  he;    "for  I  of  late  have  been 
Much  cheer'd  with  thoughts  of  Christ,  the  living 
bread." 

O  human  soul!  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if  thou  roam — 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  labourest  through  the  night ! 
Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st  indeed  thy 
home. 


THE    BETTER   PART 

Long  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of  man, 
How  angrily  thou  spurn'st  all  simpler  fare! 
"Christ,"  some  one  says,  "was  human  as  we  are; 
No  Judge  eyes  us  from  Heaven,  our  sin  to  scan; 

"  We  live  no  more  when  we  have  done  our  span." 
"  Well,  then,  for   Christ,"   thou   answerest,    "who 

can  care  ? 

From  sin,  which  Heaven  records  not,  why  forbear? 
Live  we  like  brutes,  our  life  without  a  plan!" 
207 


MATTHEW     ARNOLD 


So  answerest  thou,  but  why  not  rather  say — 
"Hath  man  no  second  life?     Pitch  this  one  high! 
Sits  there  no  judge  in  Heaven,  our  sin  to  see? 
More  strictly  then,  the  inward  judge  obey! 
Was  Christ  a  man,  like  us?     Ah!  let  us  try 
If  we  then,  too,  can  be  such  men  as  He!" 


STAGIRIUS 

Thou,  who  dost  dwell  alone — 
Thou,  who  dost  .know  thine  own- 
Thou,  to  whom  all  are  known 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave — 

Save,  oh!  save. 
From  the  world's  temptations, 

From  tribulations, 
From  that  fierce  anguish 
Wherein  we  languish, 
From  that  torpor  deep 
Wherein  we  lie  asleep, 
Heavy  as  death,  cold  as  the  grave, 

Save,  oh!  save. 

When  the  soul,  growing  clearer, 
Sees  God  no  nearer; 

When  the  soul,  mounting  higher, 
To  God  comes  no  nigher; 
208 


MATTHEW     ARNOLD 


But  the  arch-fiend  Pride 
Mounts  at  her  side, 
Foiling  her  high  emprise, 
Sealing  her  eagle  eyes, 
And,  when  she  fain  would  soar, 
Makes  idols  to  adore, 
Changing  the  pure  emotion 
Of  her  high  devotion, 
To  a  skin-deep  sense 
Of  her  own  eloquence; 
Strong  to  deceive,  strong  to  enslave — 
Save,  oh!  save. 

From  the  ingrain' d  fashion 
Of  this  earthly  nature 
That  mars  Thy  creature; 
From  grief  that  is  but  passion, 
From  mirth  that  is  but  feigning, 
From  tears  that  bring  no  healing, 
From  wild  and  weak  complaining, 
Thine  old  strength  revealing, 

Save    oh!  save. 

From  doubt,  where  all  is  double; 
Where  wise  men  are  not  strong. 
Where  comfort  turns  to  trouble, 
Where  just  men  suffer  wrong; 
Where  sorrow  treads  on  joy, 
Where  sweet  things  soonest  cloy, 
Where  faiths  are  built  on  dust, 
Where  love  is  half  mistrust, 
209 


MATTHEW     ARNOLD 


Hungry,  and  barren,  and  sharp  as  the  sea- 

Oh!  set  us  free. 
O  let  the  false  dream  fly 
Where  our  sick  souls  do  lie 
Tossing  continually! 

O  where  thy  voice  doth  come 

Let  all  doubts  be  dumb, 

Let  all  words  be  mild, 

All  strifes  be  reconciled, 

All  pains  beguiled! 
Light  bring  no  blindness, 
Love  no  unkindness, 
Knowledge  no  ruin, 
Fear  no  undoing ! 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

Save,  oh !  save. 


IMMORTALITY 

Foil'd  by  our  fellowmen,  depress'd,  outworn, 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its  way, 
And,  Patience!  in  another  life,  we  say, 
The  world  shall  be  thrust  down,  and  we  up-borne. 

And  will  not,  then,  the  immortal  armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor,  routed  leavings?  or  will  they, 
Who  fail'd  under  the  heat  of  this  life's  day, 
Support  the  fervours  of  the  heavenly  morn? 


COVENTRY     PATMORE 


No,  no!  the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept  on  after  the  grave,  but  not  begun; 
And  he  who  flagg'd  not  in  the  earthly  strife, 

From  strength  to  strength  advancing — only  he, 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles  won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life. 


h        COVENTRY  PATMORE 

THE   TOYS 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss 'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 
His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darken 'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 
For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein 'd  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 
211 


COVENTRY     PATMORE 


And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with 

careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath. 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood, 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 
Thou 'It  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
'I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness.' 


VICTORY   IN   DEFEAT 

Ah,  God,  alas, 
How  soon  it  came  to  pass 
The  sweetness  melted  from  thy  barbed  hook 
Which  I  so  simply  took; 
And  I  lay  bleeding  on  the  bitter  land, 
Afraid  to  stir  against  thy  least  command, 
But  losing  all  my  pleasant  life-blood,  whence 
Force  should  have  been  heart's  frailty  to  withstand. 


COVENTRY     PATMORE 


Life  is  not  life  at  all  without  delight, 

Nor  has  it  any  might; 

And  better  than  the  insentient  heart  and  brain 

Is    sharpest    pain ; 

And  better  for  the  moment  seems  it  to  rebel, 

If  the  great  Master,  from  his  lifted  seat, 

Ne'er  whispers  to  the  wearied  servant  "Well!" 

Yet  what  returns  of  love  did  I  endure, 

When  to  be  pardon'd  seem'd  almost  more  sweet 

Than   aye  to  have  been   pure! 

But  day  still  faded  to  disastrous  night, 

And  thicker  darkness  changed  to  feebler  light, 

Until  forgiveness,   without  stint  renew 'd, 

Was  now  no  more  with  loving  tears  imbued, 

Vowing  no  more  offence. 

Not  less  to  thine  Unfaithful  didst  thou  cry, 

"Come  back,  poor  Child;    be  all  as  'twas  before." 

But  I, 

"No,  no;    I  will  not  promise  any  more! 

Yet,  when  I  feel  my  hour  is  come  to  die, 

And  so  I  am  secured  of  continence, 

Then  may  I  say,  though  haply  then  in  vain, 

'My  only,  only  Love,  O,  take  me  back  again.'  ' 

Thereafter  didst  thou  smite 
So  hard  that,  for  a  space, 
Uplifted  seem'd  Heav'n's  everlasting  door, 
And  I  indeed  the  darling  of  thy  grace. 
But,  in  some  dozen  changes  of  the  moon, 
A  bitter  mockery  seem'd  thy  bitter  boon. 
213 


COVENTRY     PATMORE 


The  broken  pinion  was  no  longer  sore. 

Again,  indeed,  I  woke 

Under  so  dread  a  stroke 

That  all  the  strength  it  left  within  my  heart 

Was  just  to  ache  and  turn,  and  then  to  turn  and 

ache, 

And  some  weak  sign  of  war  unceasingly  to  make. 
And  here  I  lie, 
With  no  one  near  to  mark, 
Thrusting  Hell's  phantoms  feebly  in  the  dark, 
And  still  at  point  more  utterly  to  die. 
O  God,  how  long! 

Put  forth  indeed  Thy  powerful  right  hand, 
While  time  is  yet, 
Or  never  shall  I  see  the  blissful  land! 

Thus  I :  then  God,  in  pleasant  speech  and  strong, 
(Which  soon  I  shall  forget) : 

"The  man  who,  though  his  fights  be  all  defeats, 
Still  fights, 
Enters  at  last 

The  heavenly  Jerusalem's  rejoicing  streets 
With  glory  more,  and  more  triumphant  rites 
Than  always-conquering  Joshua's,  when  his  blast 
The  frighted  walls  of  Jericho  down  cast; 
And,  lo,  the  glad  surprise 
Of  peace  beyond  surmise, 
More  than  in  common  Saints,  for  ever  in  his  eyes." 


314 


GEORGE  MACDONALD 


VESICA   PISCIS 

In  strenuous  hope  I  wrought, 
And  hope  seem'd  still  betray 'd; 
Lastly  I  said, 

"I  have  labour'd  through  the  Night,  nor  yet 
Have   taken   aught; 

But  at  Thy  word  I  will  again  cast  forth  the  net!" 
And,  lo,  I  caught 

(Oh,  quite  unlike  and  quite  beyond  my  thought), 
Not  the  quick,  shining  harvest  of  the  Sea, 
For  food,  my  wish, 
But  Thee! 

Then,  hiding  even  in  me, 
As  hid  was  Simon's  coin  within  the  fish, 
Thou  sigh'd'st,  with  joy,   "Be  dumb, 
Or  speak  but  of  forgotten  things  to  far-off  times 
to  come." 


GEORGE  MACDONALD 

REST 

Who  dwelleth  in  that  secret  place, 
Where  tumult  enters  not, 

Is  never  cold  with  terror  base, 
Never  with  anger  hot: 
215 


GEORGE  MACDONALD 

For  if  an  evil  host  should  dare 

His  very  heart  invest, 
God  is  his  deeper  heart,  and  there 

He  enters  in  to  rest. 

When  mighty  sea-winds  madly  blow, 

And  tear  the  scattered  waves, 
Peaceful  as  summer  woods,  below 

Lie  darkling  ocean  caves: 
The  wind  of  words  may  toss  my  heart, 

But  what  is  that  to  me! 
Tis  but  a  surface  storm — Thou  art 

My  deep,  still,  resting  sea. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

Babe  Jesus  lay  in  Mary's  lap; 

The  sun  shone  on  His  hair; 
And  this  is  how  she  saw,  mayhap, 

The  crown  already  there. 

For  she  sang:    "Sleep  on,  my  little  King, 

Bad  Herod  dares  not  come; 
Before  Thee  sleeping,  holy  thing, 

The  wild  winds  would  be  dumb. 
216 


GEORGE  MACDONALD 


"I  kiss  Thy  hands,  I  kiss  Thy  feet, 

My  child  so  long  desired; 
Thy  hands  shall  never  be  soiled,  my  sweet; 

Thy  feet  shall  never  be  tired. 

"For  Thou  art  the  King  of  Men,  my  son; 

Thy  crown  I  see  it  plain ; 
And  men  shall  worship  Thee,  every  one, 

And  cry,  Glory!     Amen!" 

Babe  Jesus  opened  His  eyes  so  wide! 

At  Mary  looked  her  Lord. 
And  Mary  stinted  her  song  and  sighed. 

Babe  Jesus  said  never  a  word. 


THAT   HOLY   THING 

They  all  were  looking  for  a  king 

To  slay  their  foes  and  lift  them  high; 

Thou  cam'st  a  little  baby  thing 
That  made  a  woman  cry. 

O  Son  of  Man,  to  right  my  lot 

Naught  but  Thy  presence  can  avail; 

Yet  on  the  road  Thy  wheels  are  not, 
Nor  on  the  sea  Thy  sail! 
217 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


My  how  or  when  Thou  wilt  not  heed, 
But  come  down  Thine  own  secret  stair, 

That  Thou  mayst  answer  all  my  need — 
Yea,  every  bygone  prayer. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

MEN   AND   MAN 

Men  the  Angels  eyed; 

And  here  they  were  wild  waves, 

And  there  as  marsh  descried. 

Men  the  Angels  eyed, 

And  liked  the  picture  best 

Where  they  were  greenly  dressed 

In  brotherhood  of  graves. 

Man  the  Angels  marked: 
He  led  a  host  through  murk, 
On  fearful  seas  embarked, 
Man  the  Angels  marked; 
To  think  without  a  nay, 
That  he  was  good  as  they, 
And  help  him  at  his  work. 

Man  and  Angels,  ye 
A  sluggish  fen  shall  drain, 
218 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


Shall  quell  a  warring  sea. 
Man  and  Angels,  ye, 
Whom  stain  of  strife  befouls, 
A  light  to  kindle  souls 
Bear  radiant  in  the  stain. 


SENSE   AND   SPIRIT 

The  senses  loving  Earth  or  well  or  ill, 

Ravel  yet  more  the  riddle  of  our  lot. 

The  mind  is  in  their  trammels,  and  lights  not 

By    trimming    fear  -  bred    tales ;     nor    does    the 

will 

To  find  in  nature  things  which  less  may  chill 
An  ardour  that  desires,  unknowing  what. 
Till  we  conceive  her  living  we  go  distraught, 
At  best  but  circle-windsails  of  a  mill. 
Seeing  she  lives,  and  of  her  joy  of  life 
Creatively  has  given  us  blood  and  breath 
For  endless  war  and  never  wound  unhealed, 
The  gloomy  Wherefore  of  our  battle-field 
Solves    in    the    Spirit,   wrought    of   her    through 

strife 

To  read  her  own  and  trust  her  down  to  death. 
219 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


LUCIFER   IN   STARLIGHT 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screened, 
Where  sinners  hugged  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  Western  wing  he  leaned, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Africa  careened, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring    through    wider    zones    that    pricked    his 

scars 

With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and 

sank. 

Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank  on  rank, 
The   army   of   unalterable   law. 


A     BALLAD   OF   PAST   MERIDIAN 

Last  night  returning  from  my  twilight  walk 
I  met  the  grey  mist  Death,  whose  eyeless  brow 
Was  bent  on  me,  and  from  his  hand  of  chalk 
He  reached  me  flowers  as  from  a  withered  bough: 
O  Death,  what  bitter  nosegays  givest  thou! 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


Death  said,  I  gather,  and  pursued  his  way. 
Another  stood  by  me,  a  shape  in  stone, 
Sword-hacked  and  iron-stained,with  breasts  of  clay, 
And  metal  veins  that  sometimes  fiery  shone: 
O  Life,  how  naked  and  how  hard  when  known! 

Life  said,  As  thou  hast  carved  me,  such  am  I. 
Then  memory,  like  the  nightjar  on  the  pine, 
And  sightless  hope,  a  woodlark  in  night  sky, 
Joined  notes  of  Death  and  Life  till  night's  decline: 
Of  Death,  of  Life,  those  inwound  notes  are  mine. 


THE   QUESTION    WHITHER 

When  we  have  thrown  off  this  old  suit, 

So  much  in  need  of  mending, 
To  sink  among  the  naked  mute, 

Is  that,  think  you,  our  ending? 
We  follow  many,   more  we  lead, 

And  you  who  sadly  turf  us, 
Believe  not  that  all  living  seed 

Must  flower  above  the  surface. 

Sensation  is  a  gracious  gift, 
But  were  it  cramped  to  station, 

The  prayer  to  have  it  cast  adrift, 
Would  spout  from  all   sensation. 
221 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


Enough  if  we  have  winked  to  sun, 
Have  sped  the  plough  a  season; 

There  is  a  soul  for  labour  done. 
Endureth  fixed  as  reason. 

Then  let  our  trust  be  firm  in  Good, 

Though  we  be  of  the  fasting; 
Our  questions  are  a  mortal  brood, 

Our  work  is  everlasting. 
We  children  of  Beneficence, 

Are  in  its  being  sharers, 
And  Whither  vainer  sounds  than  Whence, 

For  word  with  such  wayfarers. 


OUTER   AND   INNER 

From  twig  to  twig  the  spider  weaves 

At  noon  his  webbing   fine. 
So  near  to  mute  the  zephyrs  flute 

That  only  leaflets  dance. 
The  sun  draws  out  of  hazel  leaves 

A  smell  of  woodland  wine. 
I  wake  a  swarm  to  sudden  storm 

At  any  step's  advance. 

Along  my  path  is  bugloss  blue, 
The  star  with  fruit  in  moss; 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


The  foxgloves  drop  from  throat  to  top 

A  daily  lesser  bell. 
The  blackest  shadow,  nurse  of  dew, 

Has  orange  skeins  across; 
And  keenly  red  is  one  thin  thread 

That  flashing  seems  to  swell. 

My  world  I  note  ere  fancy  comes, 

Minutest  hushed  observe: 
What  busy  bits  of  motioned  wits 

Through   antlered    mosswork   strive. 
But  now  so  low  the  stillness  hums, 

My  springs  of  seeing  swerve, 
For  half  a  wink  to  thrill  and  think 

The  woods  with  nymphs  alive. 

I  neighbour  the  invisible 

So  close  that  my  consent 
Is  only  asked  for  spirits  masked 

To  leap  from  trees  and  flowers. 
And  this  because  with  them  I  dwell 

In  thought,  while  calmly  bent 
To  read  the  lines  dear  Earth  designs 

Shall  speak  her  life  on  ours. 

Accept,  she  says;    it  is  not  hard 
In  woods;    but  she  in  towns 

Repeats,  accept;    and  have  we  wept, 
And  have  we  quailed  with  fears, 
223 


DANTE     GABRIEL     ROSSETTI 

Or  shrunk  with  horrors,  sure  reward 
We  have  whom  knowledge  crowns; 

Who  see  in  mould  the  rose  unfold, 
The  soul  through  blood  and  tears. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

WORLD'S    WORTH 

'Tis  of  the  Father  Hilary. 

He  strove,  but  could  not  pray;    so  took 

The  steep-coiled  stair,  where  his  feet  shook 
A  sad  blind  echo.     Ever  up 

He  toiled.     'Twas  a  sick  sway  of  air 

That  autumn  noon  within  the  stair, 
As  dizzy  as  a  turning  cup. 

His  brain  benumbed  him,   void  and  thin; 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  it  spin; 

The  obscure  deafness  hemmed  him  in. 
He  said:    "O  world,  what  world  for  me?" 

He  leaned  unto  the  balcony 

Where  the  chime  keeps  the  night  and  day; 

It  hurt  his  brain,  he  could  not  pray. 
He  had  his  face  upon  the  stone: 

Deep  'twixt  the  narrow  shafts,  his  eye 

Passed  all  the  roofs  to  the  stark  sky, 
Swept  with  no  wing,  with  wind  alone. 
224 


DANTE     GABRIEL     ROSSETTI 

Close  to  his  feet  the  sky  did  shake 
With  wind  in  pools  that  the  rains  make: 
The  ripple  set  his  eyes  to  ache. 
He  said:    "O  world,  what  world  for  me?" 

He  stood  within  the  mystery 
Girding  God's  blessed  Eucharist: 
The  organ  and  the  chaunt  had  ceas'd. 

The  last  words  paused  against  his  ear 
Said  from  the  altar:    drawn  round  him 
The  gathering  rest  was  dumb  and  dim. 

And  now  the  sacring-bell  rang  clear 

And  ceased;    and  all  was  awe — the  breath 
Of  God  in  man  that  warranteth 
The  inmost  utmost  things  of  faith. 

He  said:    "O  God,  my  world  in  Thee!" 


VAIN   VIRTUES 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell? 

None  of  the  sins, — but  this  and  that  fair  deed 

Which  a  soul's  sin  at  length  could  supersede. 
These  yet  are  virgins,  whom  death's  timely  knell 
Might  once  have  sainted;   whom  the  fiends  compel 

Together    now,    in    snake  -  bound    shuddering 
sheaves 

Of  anguish,  while  the  pit's  pollution  leaves 
Their  refuse  maidenhood  abominable. 
225 


DANTE     GABRIEL     ROSSETTI 

Night  sucks  them  down,  the  tribute  of  the  pit, 

Whose  names,  half  entered  in  the  book  of  Life, 

Were  God's  desire  at  noon.     And  as  their  hair 

And  eyes  sink  last,  the  Torturer  deigns  no  whit 

To  gaze,  but,  yearning,  waits  his  destined  wife, 

The  Sin  still  blithe  on  earth  that  sent  them 

there. 


LOST   DAYS 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 

Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay? 

Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 

The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway? 

I  do  not  see  them  here;    but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"I  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  me?" 

"And  I — and  I — thyself,"  (lo!  each  one  saith.) 
"And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity!" 
226 


DANTE     GABRIEL     ROSSETTI 


A  SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look  in  my  face;    my  name  is  Might-have-been; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my 
spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am!  But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  surprise 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath  of 

sighs, — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


THE   HEART   OF   THE   NIGHT 

From  child  to  youth ;  from  youth  to  arduous  man ; 

From  lethargy  to  fever  of  the  heart; 

From  faithful  life  to  dream-dowered  days  apart; 
From  trust  to  doubt ;  from  doubt  to  brink  of  ban ; — 
Thus  much  of  change  in  one  swift  cycle  ran 
227 


CHRISTINA     ROSSETTI 


Till  now.     Alas,  the  soul! — how  soon  must  she 
Accept  her  primal  immortality — 
The  flesh  resume  its  dust  whence  it  began? 

O  Lord  of  work  and  peace!     O  Lord  of  life! 
O  Lord,  the  awful  Lord  of  will!    though  late, 
Even  yet  renew  this  soul  with  duteous  breath: 

That  when  the  peace  is  garnered  in  from  strife, 
The  work  retrieved,  the  will  regenerate, 
This  soul  may  see  thy  face,  O  Lord  of  death! 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

OLD   AND    NEW   YEAR   DITTIES 

Passing  away,  saith  the  World,  passing  away: 
Chances,  beauty,  and  youth,  sapped  day  by  day: 
Thy  life  never  continueth  in  one  stay. 
Is  the  eye  waxen  dim,  is  the  dark  hair  changing 

to  grey 

That  hath  won  neither  laurel  nor  bay? 
I  shall  clothe  myself  in  Spring  and  bud  in  May : 
Thou,  root-stricken,  shalt  not  rebuild  thy  decay 
On  my  bosom  for  aye. 
Then  I  answered:    Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  Soul,  passing  away: 
With  its  burden  of  fear  and  hope,  of  labour  and  play, 
228 


CHRISTINA     ROSSETTI 


Hearken  what  the  past  doth  witness  and  say: 
Rust  in  thy  gold,  a  moth  is  in  thine  array, 
A  canker  is  in  thy  bud,  thy  leaf  must  decay. 
At  midnight,  at  cockcrow,  at  morning,  one  certain 

day 

Lo,  the  Bridegroom  shall  come  and  shall  not  delay ; 
Watch  thou  and  pray. 
Then  I  answered:    Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  God,  passing  away: 

Winter  passeth  after  the  long  delay: 

New  grapes  on  the  vine,  new  figs  on  the  tender 

spray, 

Turtle  calleth  turtle  in  Heaven's  May. 
Though   I    tarry,  wait  for   Me,   trust  Me,    watch 

and  pray: 

Arise,  come  away,  night  is  past  and  lo  it  is  day, 
My  love,  My  sister,  My  spouse,  thou  shalt  hear 

me  say. 
Then  I  answered:    Yea. 


UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 
229 


CHRISTINA     ROSSETTI 


But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


THE   WORLD 

By  day  she  woos  me,  soft,  exceeding  fair: 
But  all  night  as  the  moon  so  changeth  she; 
Loathsome  and  foul  with  hideous  leprosy, 

And  subtle  serpents  gliding  in  her  hair. 

By  day  she  woos  me  to  the  outer  air, 

Ripe  fruits,  sweet  flowers,  and  full  satiety: 
But  through  the  night  a  beast  she  grins  at  me, 

A  very  monster  void  of  love  and  prayer. 

By  day  she  stands  a  lie:   by  night  she  stands 
In  all  the  naked  horror  of  the  truth, 
230 


CHRISTINA     ROSSETTI 

With  pushing   horns  and    clawed   and   clutching 

hands. 
Is  this  a  friend  indeed;  that  I  should  sell 

My  soul  to  her,  give  her  my  life  and  youth, 
Till  my  feet,  cloven  too,  take  hold  on  hell? 


SLEEPING  AT   LAST 

Sleeping  at  last,  the  trouble  and  tumult  over, 

Sleeping  at  last,  the  struggle  and  horror  past, 
Cold  and  white,  out  of   sight  of  friend   and  of 
lover, 

Sleeping  at  last. 

No  more  a  tired  heart  downcast  or  overcast, 
No  more  pangs  that  wring  or  shifting  fears  that 

hover, 
Sleeping  at  last  in  a  dreamless  sleep  locked  fast. 

Fast  asleep.     Singing  birds  in  their  leafy  cover 
Cannot  wake   her,   nor    shake    her    the    gusty 

blast. 

Under  the  purple  thyme  and  the  purple  clover 
Sleeping  at  last. 


231 


T.     E.     BROWN 


T.  E.  BROWN 

INDWELLING 

If  thou  could 'st  empty  all  thy  self  of  self 

Like  to  a  shell  dishabited, 

Then  might  He  find  thee  on  the  ocean  shelf 

And  say — "This  is  not  dead," 

And  fill  thee  with  Himself  instead; 

But  thou  art  all  replete  with  very  thou 

And  hast  such  shrewd  activity, 

That  when  He  comes  He  says:    "This  is  enow 

Unto  itself;    'twere  better  let  it  be, 

It  is  so  small  and  full,  there  is  no  room  for  Me. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

HERTHA 

I  am  that  which  began; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man; 
I  am  equal  and  Whole; 

God  changes,  and  man,  and  the  form  of  them 
bodily;    I  am  the  soul. 
232 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Before  ever  land  was, 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 

Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 

Or  the  flesh-coloured  fruit  of  my  branches,  I  was, 
and  thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn; 

Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  and  wild-beast  and 
bird;    before  God  was,  I  am. 

Beside  or  above  me 

Nought  is  there  to  go; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 

I  am  that  which  unloves  me  and  loves;    I  am 
stricken,  and  I  am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  missed 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kissed 

And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 

The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker,  the 
soul  and  the  body  that  is. 
233 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate; 
That  which  caresses 

With  hands  uncreate 

My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the  length  of 
the  measure  of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now 

Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
"I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high?" 

I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him;  find 
thou  but  thyself,  thou  art  I. 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

The  plough-cloven  clod 
And  the  ploughshare  drawn  thorough, 

The  germ  and  the  sod, 

The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the  sower, 
the  dust  which  is  God. 

Hast  thou  known  how  I  fashioned  thee, 

Child,  underground? 
Fire  that  impassioned  thee, 

Iron  that  bound, 

Dim  changes  of  water,  what  thing  of  all  these  hast 
thou  known  of  or  found? 
234 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise, 
By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast  shapen, 
and  shown  on  my  breast  to  the  skies? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee, 

Knowledge  of  me? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee? 

Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea? 
Hast  thou  communed  in  spirit  with  night?  have 
the  winds  taken  counsel  with  thee? 


Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 

What  I  show  to  thee  now? 

Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren  together,  the  sun  and 
the  mountains  and  thou? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 

Nor  spirit  nor  flesh  can  make  answer,  but  only 
thy  mother  alone. 

235 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 

Allured  or  afraid, 

Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion,  she 
stirs  not  for  all  that  have  prayed. 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 

To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit,  and 
live  out  thy  life  as  the  light. 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith, 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 

Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 

Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,  white  flowers  of  thy 
thought,  and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee; 
The  free  life  of  thy  living, 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free; 

Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to  slave 
shalt  thou  give  thee  to  me. 
236 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

0  children  of  banishment, 
Souls  overcast, 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 

Alway  to  last, 

Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the  shad- 
ows and  stars  overpast. 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 
The  dim  paths  of  the  night 

Set  the  shadow  called  God 

In  your  skies  to  give  light; 

But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and  the 
shadowless  soul  is  in  sight. 


The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 

The  life-tree  am  I; 

In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my  leaves: 
ye  shall  live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 

That  scourge  and  forgive, 

They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark  that 
falls  off:    they  shall  die  and  not  live. 
237 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 

Make  day  of  the  dark, 

And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall 
tread  out  their  fires  as  a  spark. 


Where  dead  ages  hide  under 

The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 

In  my  darkness  the  thunder 

Make  utterance  of  me; 

In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other  ye  hear 
the  waves  sound  of  the  sea. 


That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead, 
And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and  rustles,  and 
branches  are  bent  with  his  tread. 


The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 

The  spring-wind  of  peace, 

Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses,  ere 
one  of  my  blossoms  increase. 
238 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 

And  stream-riven  heights, 

Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  and  language 
of  storm-clouds  on  earth-shaking  nights; 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 

Of  time»-stricken  lands, 

All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all  ruins, 
drop  through  me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  growth  have  no  guerdon 

But  only  to  grow, 

Yet  I  fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings  above  me 
or  death  worms  below. 


These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 

Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 

Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of  in- 
finite lands  and  of  seas. 
239 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

In  the  spring-coloured  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 

By  centuries  of  days, 

Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,  shot 
out  from  my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 

And  strength  to  my  roots; 

And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect  with 
freedom  of  soul  were  my  fruits. 

I  bid  you  but  be; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air; 
That  my  heart  may  be  greater  within  me,  behold- 
ing the  fruits  of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs; 
Behold  now  your  God  that  ye  made  you,  to  feed 
him  with  faith  of  your  vows. 
240 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  adored, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 

For  lamp  and  for  sword, 

God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  red 
with  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me, 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free? 

For  behold,  I   am  with  you,  am   in   you  and  of 
you;  look  forth  now  and  see. 

Lo,  winged  with  world's  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 

For  raiment  and  rod, 

God  trembles  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  white 
with  the  terror  of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 

Grown  grey  from  his  fear; 

And  his  hour   taketh  hold  on  him   stricken,  the 
last  of  his  infinite  year. 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him, 
Truth  slays  and  forgives; 
241 


THEODORE     WATTS-DUNTON 

But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 

This  new  thing  it  gives, 

Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that  feeds  upon 
freedom  and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 

Truth  only  is  whole, 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man's  polestar  and  pole; 

Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my  body, 
and  seed  of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye; 
One  topmost  blossom 
That  scales  the  sky; 

Man,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made  of 
me,  man  that  is  I. 

THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON 

NATURA    BENIGNA 

The  Promise  of  the  Sunrise 

What  power  is  this  ?  what  witchery  wins  my  feet 
To  peaks  so  sheer  they  scorn  the  cloaking  snow, 
All  silent  as  the  emerald  gulfs  below, 
Down  whose  ice-walls  the  wings  of  twilight  beat  ? 
What  thrill  of  earth  and  heaven  —  most  wild, 
most  sweet — 

242 


JOAQUIN     MILLER 


What  answering  pulse  that  all  the  senses  know, 
Comes  leaping  from  the  ruddy  eastern  glow 
Where,  far  away,  the  skies  and  mountains  meet? 
Mother,   'tis  I  reborn:    I   know  thee  well: 
That  throb  I  know  and  all  it  prophesies, 
O  Mother  and  Queen,  beneath  the  olden  spell 
Of  silence,  gazing  from  thy  hills  and  skies! 
Dumb  Mother,  struggling  with  the  years  to  tell 
The  secret  at  thy  heart  through  helpless  eyes. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

COLUMBUS 

Behind  him  lay  the  great  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules, 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas, 
The  good  mate  said:    "Now  must  we  pray; 

For  lo,  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Admiral,  speak,  what  shall  I  say?" 

"  Why,  say,  Sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

The  men  grew  mutinous  by  day, 

The  men  grew  ghastly  pale  and  weak; 

The  sad  mate  thought  of  home,  a  spray 
Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 

"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Admiral,  say 
If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?' 
243 


EDWARD     ROWLAND     SILL 

"  Why  you  shall  say,  at  break  of  day, 
Sail  on,  sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

They  sailed,  they  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until,  at  last,  the  blanched  mate  said, 
"  Why  now  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
The  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  has  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Admiral,  speak  and  say — " 

He  said:   "  Sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 

They  sailed,  they  sailed.     Then  spoke  the  mate: 

"This  mad  sea  shows  its  teeth  to-night, 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite. 
Brave  Admiral,  say  but  one  good  word, 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?" 
The  words  leaped  as  a  flaming  sword, — 

"Sail  on,  sail  on,  sail  on,  and  on." 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL 

A   PRAYER 

O  God,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but  truth! 

Lost  truth — which  Thou  perchance 
Didst  let  man  lose,  lest  all  his  wayward  youth 

He  waste  in  song  and  dance; 
244 


EDWARD     ROWLAND     SILL 

That  he  might  gain,  in  searching,  mightier  powers 
For  manlier  use  in  those  foreshadowed  hours. 

If  blindly  groping,  he  shall  oft  mistake, 

And  follow  twinkling  motes 
Thinking  them  stars,  and  the  one  voice  forsake 

Of  Wisdom  for  the  notes 

Which  mocking  Beauty  utters  here  and  there, 
Thou  surely  wilt  forgive  him,  and  forbear! 

O  love  us,  for  we  love  Thee,  Maker — God! 

And  would  creep  near  Thy  hand, 
And  call  Thee,  "Father,  Father,"  from  the  sod 

Where  by  our  graves  we  stand, 
And  pray  to  touch,  fearless  of  scorn  or  blame, 
Thy  garment's  hem,  which  Truth  and  Good  we 
name. 


"QUEM   METUI    MORITURA?" 

What  need  have  I  to  fear — so  soon  to  die  ? 

Let  me  work  on,  not  watch  and  wait  in  dread: 
What  will  it  matter,  when  that  I  am  dead, 

That  they  bore  hate  or  love  who  near  me  lie  ? 

'Tis  but  a  lifetime,  and  the  end  is  nigh 

At  best  or  worst.     Let  me  lift  up  my  head 
And  firmly,  as  with  inner  courage,  tread 

Mine  own  appointed  way,  on  mandates  high. 
245 


MINOT    J.     SAVAGE 


Pain  could  but  bring,  from  all  its  evil  store, 
The  close  of  pain:   hate's  venom  could  but  kill; 

Repulse,  defeat,  desertion,  could  no  more. 

Let  me  have  lived  my  life,  not  cowered  until 

The  unhindered  and  unhastened  hour  was  here. 

So  soon — what  is  there  in  the  world  to  fear? 


MINOT  J.  SAVAGE 

MY   BIRTH 

I  had  my  birth  where  stars  were  born, 

In  the  dim  aeons  of  the  past: 
My  cradle  cosmic  forces  rocked, 

And  to  my  first  was  linked  my  last. 

Through  boundless  space  the  shuttle  flew, 
To  weave  the  warp  and  woof  of  fate: 

In  my  begetting  were  conjoined 
The  infinitely  small  and  great. 

The  outmost  star  on  being's  rim, 
The  tiniest  sand-grain  of  the  earth, 

The  farthest  thrill  and  nearest  stir 
Were  not  indifferent  to  my  birth. 

And  when  at  last  the  earth  swung  free, 

A  little  planet  by  the  moon, 
For  me  the  continent  arose, 

For  me  the  ocean  roared  its  tune; 
246 


MINOT    J.     SAVAGE 


For  me  the  forests  grew;    for  me 
Th'  electric  force  ran  to  and  fro; 

For  me  tribes  wandered  o'er  the  earth, 
Kingdoms  arose,  and  cities  grew; 

For  me  religions  waxed  and  waned; 

For  me  the  ages  garnered  store; 
For  me  ships  traversed  every  sea; 

For  me  the  wise  ones  learned  their  lore; 

For  me  through  fire  and  blood  and  tears, 
Man  struggled  onward  up  the  height, 

On  which,  at  last,  from  heaven  falls 
An  ever  clearer,  broader  light. 

The  child  of  all  the  ages,  I, 

Nursed  on  th'  exhaustless  breasts  of  time; 
By  heroes  thrilled,  by  sages  taught, 

Sung  to  by  bards  of  every  clime. 

Quintessence  of  the  universe, 

Distilled  at  last  from  God's  own  heart, 
In  me  concentered  now  abides 

Of  all  that  is  the  subtlest  part. 

The  produce  of  the  ages  past, 
Heir  of  the  future  then,  am  I: 

So  much  am  I  divine  that  God 
Cannot  afford  to  let  me  die. 
247 


EDWARD     DOWDEN 


If  I   should   ever  cease   to  be, 

The  farthest  star  its  mate  would  miss, 
And,  looking  after  me,  would  fall 

Down  headlong  darkening  to  th'  abyss. 

For,  if  aught  real  that  is  could  cease, 

If  the  All-Father  ever  nods, 
That  day  across  the  heavens  would  fall 

Ragnarok,  twilight  of  the  gods. 


EDWARD  DOWDEN 

SEEKING   GOD 
(The  Inner  Life} 

I  said,  "I  will  find  God,"  and  forth  I  went 
To  seek  Him  in  the  clearness  of  the  sky, 
But  over  me  stood  unendurably 
Only  a  pitiless  sapphire  firmament 
Ringing  the  world, — blank  splendour;  yet  intent 
Still  to  find  God,  "I  will  go  seek,"  said  I, 
"His  way  upon  the  waters,"  and  drew  nigh 
An  ocean  marge  weed-strewn  and  foam-besprent; 
And  the  waves  dashed  on  idle  sand  and  stone, 
And  very  vacant  was  the  long,  blue  sea; 
But  in  the  evening  as  I  sat  alone, 
My  window  open  to  the  vanishing  day, 
Dear  God !  I  could  not  choose  but  kneel  and  pray, 
And  it  sufficed  that  I  was  found  of  Thee. 
248 


FREDERIC     W.     H.     MYERS 


FREDERIC  W.  H.  MYERS 
SUNRISE 

From  above  us  and  from  under, 
In  the  ocean  and  the  thunder, 
Thou  preludest  to  the  wonder 

Of  the  Paradise  to  be: 
For  a  moment  we  may  guess  Thee 
From  Thy  creatures  that  confess  Thee 
When  the  morn  and  even  bless  Thee, 

And  Thy  smile  is  on  the  sea. 

Then  from  something  seen  or  heard, 
Whether  forests  softly  stirred, 
Or  the  speaking  of  a  word, 
Or  the  singing  of  a  bird, 

Cares  and  sorrows  cease. 
For  a  moment  on  the  soul 
Falls  the  rest  that  maketh  whole, 

Falls  the  endless  peace. 

O  the  hush  from  earth's  annoys! 
O  the  heavens,  O  the  joys 
Such  as  priest  and  singing-boys 

Cannot  sing  or  say! 
There  is  no  more  pain  and  crying, 
There  is  no  more  death  and  dying, 
As  for  sorrow  and  for  sighing, — 

These  shall  flee  away. 
249 


GERARD     HOPKINS 


GERARD  HOPKINS 

THE   DEBT 

Thee,  God,  I  come  from,  to  Thee  go, 
All  day  long  I  like  fountain  flow 
From  Thy  hand  out,  swayed  about 
Mote-like  in  Thy  mighty  glow. 

What  I  know  of  Thee  I  bless, 
As  acknowledging  Thy  stress 
On  my  being,  and  as  seeing 
Something  of  Thy  holiness. 

Once  I  turned  from  Thee  and  hid, 
Bound  on  what  Thou  hadst  forbid; 
Sow  the  wind  I  would;    I  sinned: 
I  repent  of  what  I  did. 

Bad  I  am,  but  yet  Thy  child. 

Father,  be  Thou  reconciled. 

Spare  Thou  me,  since  I  see 

With  Thy  might  that  Thou  art  mild. 

I  have  life  left  with  me  still 
And  Thy  purpose  to  fulfil; 
Yes,  a  debt  to  pay  Thee  yet: 
Help  me,  Sir,  and  so  I  will. 
250 


GERARD     HOPKINS 


THE   HABIT   OF   PERFECTION 

Elected  Silence,  sing  to  me 

And  beat  upon  my  whorl£d  ear, 

Pipe  me  to  pastures  still,  and  be 
The  music  that  I   care  to  hear. 

Shape  nothing,  lips;    be  lovely-dumb: 
It  is  the  shut,  the  curfew  sent 

From  there  where  all  surrenders  come 
Which  only  makes  you  eloquent. 

Be  shelle'd,  eyes,  with  double  dark 
And  find  the  uncreated  light; 

This  ruck  and  reel  which  you  remark 
Coils,   keeps  and   teases  simple  sight. 

Palate,  the  hutch  of  tasty  lust, 

Desire  not  to  be  rinsed  with  wine: 

The  can  must  be  so  sweet,  the  crust 
So  fresh  that  come  in  fasts  divine! 

Nostrils,  your  careless  breath  that  spend 
Upon  the  stir  and  keep  of  pride, 

What  relish  shall  the  censers  send 
Along  the  sanctuary  side! 
251 


GERARD     HOPKINS 


O  feel-of-primrose  hands,  O  feet 

That  want  the  yield  of  plushy  sward, 

But  you  shall  walk  the  golden  street, 
And  you  unhouse  and  house  the  Lord. 

And,  Poverty,  be  thou  the  bride 
And  now  the  marriage  feast  begun, 

And  lily-coloured  clothes  provide 

Your  spouse,  not  laboured-at,  nor  spun. 


GOD'S   GRANDEUR 

The  world  is  charged  with  the  grandeur  of  God. 
It  will  flame  out,  like  shining  from  shook  foil; 
It  gathers  to  a  greatness  like  the  ooze  of  oil 
Crushed.     Why   do  men   then  now  not  reck  His 

rod? 

Generations  have  trod,  have  trod,  have  trod; 
All  is  seared  with  trade;  bleared,  smeared  with 

toil; 
And    bears    man's    smudge,  and   shares  man's 

smell;  the  soil 

Is  bare  now,  nor  can  foot  feel  being  shod. 
And  for  all  this,  nature  is  never  spent; 

There  lives  the  dearest  freshness    deep    down 
things ; 

252 


ROBERT     BRIDGES 


And  though  the  last  lights  from  the  black  west  went, 
Oh,  morning    at    the    brown    brink  eastwards 

springs — 
Because  the  Holy  Ghost  over  the  bent 

World  broods  with  warm  breast,  and  with,  ah, 
bright  wings. 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 

FORTITUDE 

Weep  not  to-day;    why  should  this  sadness  be? 
Learn  in  present  fears 
To  o'ermaster  those  tears 
That  unhindered  conquer  thee. 

Think  on  thy  past  valour,  thy  future  praise; 
Up,  sad  heart,  nor  faint 
In  ungracious  complaint, 
Or  a  prayer  for  better  days. 

Daily  thy  life  shortens,  the  grave's  dark  peace 
Draweth  surely  nigh, 
When  good-night  is  good-bye; 
For  the  sleeping  shall  not  cease. 

Fight,  to  be  found  fighting:    nor  far  away 

Deem,  nor  strange  thy  doom. 

Like  this  sorrow   'twill  come, 

And  the  day  will  be  to-day. 

253 


JOHN     VANCE    CHENEY 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

THE    HAPPIEST   HEART 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 

Shall  lord  it  but  a  day; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done, 

And  kept  the  humble  way. 

The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame, 
The  dust  will  hide  the  crown; 

Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 
Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 

The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Was  in  some  quiet  breast 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet, 

And  left  to  Heaven  the  rest. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

INVICTUS 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 
2S4 


ROBERT     LOUIS     STEVENSON 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

IF   THIS    WERE    FAITH 

God,  if  this  were  enough, 

That  I  see  things  bare  to  the  buff 

And  up  to  the  buttocks  in  mire; 

That  I  ask  nor  hope  nor  hire, 

Not  in  the  husk, 

Nor  dawn  beyond  the  dusk, 

Nor  life  beyond  death: 

God,  if  this  were  faith  ? 

Having  felt  Thy  wind  in  my  face 
Spit  sorrow  and  disgrace, 
255 


ROBERT     LOUIS     STEVENSON 

Having  seen  Thine  evil  doom 

In  Golgotha  and  Khartoum, 

And  the  brutes,  the  work  of  Thine  hands, 

Fill  with  injustice  lands 

And  stain  with  blood  the  sea: 

If  still  in  my  veins  the  glee 

Of  the  black  night  and  the  sun 

And  the  lost  battle,  run: 

If,  an  adept, 

The  iniquitous  lists  I  still  accept 

With  joy,  and  joy  to  endure  and  be  withstood, 

And  still  to  battle  and  perish  for  a  dream  of  good : 

God,  if  that  were  enough? 

If  to  feel,  in  the  ink  of  the  slough, 

And  the  sink  of  the  mire, 

Veins  of  glory  and  fire 

Run  through  and  transpierce  and  transpire, 

And  a  secret  purpose  of  glory  in  every  part, 

And  the  answering  glory  of  battle  fill  my  heart; 

To  thrill  with  the  joy  of  girded  men 

To  go  on  for  ever  and  fail  and  go  on  again, 

And  be  mauled  to  the  earth  and  arise, 

And  contend  for  the  shade  of  a  word  and  a  thing 

not  seen  with  the  eyes: 

With  the  half  of  a  broken  hope  for  a  pillow  at  night 
That  somehow  the  right  is  the  right 
And  the  smooth  shall  bloom  from  the  rough: 
Lord,  if  that  were  enough? 
256 


HERBERT     E.     CLARKE 


HERBERT  E.  CLARKE 

LIFE   AND   DEATH 


Hold  not  thy  life  too  dear  because  of  death; 

Why  wilt  thou  nought  but  labour  all  thy  .days  ? 

Thou  winnest,  but  shalt  never  wear  the  bays, 
Thou  sowest  and  another  gathereth 
The  fruitage.     Live  thou  then  as  one  who  saith: 

/  wait  a  summons,  and  with  prayer  and  praise 

And  helpful  kindness  fills  the  time  he  stays, 
And  unregretfully  yields  up  his  breath. 
Wilt  thou  pull  down  thy  barns  and  greater  build 

Because  thy  life's  land  laughs  one  golden  sea, 
From  East  to  West,  from  North  to  South  fulfilled, 

With  promise  of  harvest?     Nay,  for  verily 
Dreaming  thy  dreams  thou  findest,  stricken  and 

chilled, 
Thou  fool,  even  now,  thy  soul  required  of  thee. 

ii 

Because  of  death  hold  not  thy  life  too  cheap; 
Plan  for  the  years — found  broad  and  strong — 

aim  high: 

Nobly  to  fail  is  more  than  victory 
Over  unworthy  foes:    mourn  not  nor  weep, 
One  span  of  life  thou  hast  'twixt  deep  and  deep. 
257 


ALICE     MEYNELL 


Be  all  thy  care  to  fill  it  gloriously: 

Live  even  as  if  thou  knew'st  thou  couldst  not 

die; 

This  day  is  short — there  will  be  years  for  sleep. 
Therefore  work  thou  while  it  is  called  to-day, 
And  let  the  night  of  the  night's  things  take 

care. 
By  those  strong  souls  who  leave  our  earth  more 

fair 

With  their  strenuous  service  unto  all  for  aye. 
I  charge  thee  work,  and  let  not  Death  dismay 
Nor  the  shadow  of  death,  but  greatly  hope  and 
dare. 


ALICE  MEYNELL 

MEDITATION 

Rorate  Cceli  desuper,  et  nubes  pluant  Justum. 
Aperiatur  Terra,  et  germinet  Salvatorem. 

No  sudden  thing  of  glory  and  fear 
Was  the  Lord's  coming;    but  the  dear 
Slow  Nature's  days  followed  each  other 
To  form  the  Saviour  from  His  Mother 
— One  of  the  children  of  the  year. 

The  earth,  the  rain,  received  the  trust, 
— The  sun  and  dews,  to  frame  the  Just. 
258 


ALICE     MEYNELL 


He  drew  His  daily  life  from  these, 
According  to   His  own   decrees 
Who  makes  man  from  the  fertile  dust. 

Sweet  summer  and  the  winter  wild, 
These  brought  Him  forth,  the  Undefiled. 
The  happy  Springs  renewed  again 
His  daily  bread,  the  growing  grain, 
The  food  and  raiment  of  the  Child. 


"I   AM   THE   WAY" 

Thou  art  the  Way. 
Hadst  Thou  been  nothing  but  the  goal, 

I  cannot  say 
If  Thou  hadst  ever  met  my  soul. 

I  cannot  see — 
I,   child  of  process — if  there  lies 

An  end  for  me, 
Full  of  repose,  full  of  replies. 

I'll  not  reproach 
The  way  that  goes,  my  feet  that  stir. 

Access,    approach, 

Art  Thou,  time,  way,  and  wayfarer. 
259 


R.  D.  B. 


"WHY   WILT   THOU   CHIDE?" 

Why  wilt  thou  chide, 

Who  hast  attained  to  be  denied? 

Oh  learn,  above 
All  price  is  my  refusal,  Love. 

My  sacred  Nay 

Was  never  cheapened  by  the  way. 
Thy  single  sorrow  crowns  thee  lord 
Of  an  unpurchaseable  word. 

Oh  strong,   Oh  pure! 
As  Yea  makes  happier  loves  secure, 

I  vow  thee  this 
Unique  rejection  of  a  kiss. 

I  guard  for  thee 
This  jealous,   sad  monopoly. 
I  seal  this  honour  thine.     None  dare 
Hope  for  a  part  in  thy  despair. 


R.  D.  B. 

DOMINUS   ILLUMINATIO   MEA 

In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim, 
When  the  heart  beats  low,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  pain  has  exhausted  every  limb — 
The  lover  of  the  Lord  shall  trust  in  Him. 
260 


WILLIAM    WATSON 


When  the  will  has  forgotten  the  lifelong  aim, 
And  the  mind  can  only  disgrace  its  fame, 
And  a  man  is  uncertain  of  his  own  name — 
The  power  of  the  Lord  shall  fill  this  frame. 

When  the  last  sigh  is  heaved,  and  the  last  tear 

shed, 

And  the  coffin  is  waiting  beside  the  bed, 
And  the  widow  and  child  forsake  the  dead — 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  shall  lift  this  head. 

For  even  the  purest  delight  may  pall, 
The  power  must  fail,  and  the  pride  must  fall, 
And  the  love  of  the  dearest  friends  grow  small — 
But  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 


WILLIAM  WATSON 

THE   MYSTIC   BURDEN 

'Tis  from  those  moods  in  which  Life  stands 
With  feet  earth-planted,  yet  with  hands 
Stretched  toward  visionary  lands, 

Where  vapours  lift 
A  moment,  and  aerial  strands 

Gleam  through  the  rift, 
261 


WILLIAM     WATSON 


The  poet  wins,  in  hours  benign, 
At  older  than  the  Delphic  shrine, 
Those  intimations  faint  and  fine 

To  which  belongs 
Whatever  character  divine 

Invests  his  songs. 

And  could  we  live  more  near  allied 
To  cloud  and  mountain,  wind  and  tide, 
Cast  this  unmeaning  coil  aside, 

And  go  forth  free, 
The  World  our  goal,  Desire  our  guide, — 

We  then  might  see 

Those  master  moments  grow  less  rare, 

And  oftener  feel  that  nameless  air 

Come  rumouring  from  we  know  not  where; 

And  touch  at  whiles 
Fantastic  shores,  the  fringes  fair 

Of  fairy  isles, 

And  hail  the  mystic  bird  that  brings 
News  from  the  inner  courts  of  things, 
The  eternal  courier-dove  whose  wings 

Are  never  furled; 
And  hear  the  bubbling  of  the  springs 

That  feed  the  world. 


262 


H.  C.   BEECHING 


H.  C.  BEECHING 

PRAYERS 

I 

God  Who  created  me 

Nimble  and  light  of  limb, 
In  three  elements  free, 

To  run,  to  ride,  to  swim: 
Not  when  the  sense  is  dim, 

But  now  from  the  heart  of  joy, 
I  would  remember  Him: 

Take  the  thanks  of  a  boy. 

ii 
Jesu,  King  and  Lord, 

Whose  are  my  foes  to  fight, 
Gird  me  with  Thy  sword, 

Swift  and  sharp  and  bright. 
Thee  would  I  serve  if  I  might; 

And  conquer  if  I  can, 
From  day-dawn  till  night, 

Take  the  strength  of  a  man. 


Spirit  of  Love  and  Truth, 
Breathing  in  grosser  clay, 

The  light  and  flame  of  youth, 
Delight  of  men  in  the  fray, 
263 


FRANCIS    THOMPSON 


Wisdom  in  strength's  decay; 

From  pain,  strife,  wrong  to  be  free  ? 
This  best  gift  I  pray, 

Take  my  spirit  to  Thee. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

THE   HOUND   OF   HEAVEN 


I    fled    Him,    down    the    nights     and    down    the 

days; 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind;    and  in  the  mist  of  tears 
I    hid    from    Him,    and    under    running    laugh- 
ter. 

Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped; 
And  shot,   precipitated 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears. 

From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed 
after. 

But  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
"All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me." 
264 


FRANCIS    THOMPSON 


I  pleaded,  outlaw-wise, 
By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities; 
(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adre"ad 

Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside) 
But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide, 

The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to. 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pur- 
sue. 
Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I   fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars; 

Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 

And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  dawn:    Be  sudden — to  eve:    Be  soon; 
With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 

From  this  tremendous  Lover! 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see! 

I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy, 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me, 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit. 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue; 
Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 
But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue; 

Or  whether,  thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  his  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven, 
265 


FRANCIS     THOMPSON 


Flashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o' 

their  feet: — 

Fear  wist  not  to   evade   as   Love  wist  to  pur- 
sue. 

Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 

And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 

Came  on  the  following  Feet, 

And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
"Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter 

Me." 


I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed, 

In  face  of  man  or  maid; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies, 
They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me! 
I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully; 
But  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answers  there, 
Their  angel  plucked  them  from  me  by  the  hair. 
"Come  then,  ye  other  children,  Nature's — share 
With  me"  (said  I)   "your  delicate  fellowship; 

Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip, 

Let  me  twine  with  you  caresses, 
Wantoning 

With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses 
Banqueting 

266 


FRANCIS    THOMPSON 


With  her  in  her  wind-walled  palace, 
Underneath  her  azured  dais, 
Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is, 

From  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  dayspring." 

So  it  was  done: 

/  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 
I  knew  all  the  swift  importings 
On  the  wilful  face  of  skies; 
I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 
Spumed  of  the  wild  sea-snortings ; 

All  that's  born  or  dies 

Rose  and  drooped  with — made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine — 
With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  even 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 
Round   the   day's   dead  sanctities. 
I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together, 
And     its    sweet     tears    were    salt    with     mortal 

mine; 

Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
And  share  commingling  heat; 
But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human 
smart. 

267 


FRANCIS    THOMPSON 


In  vain    my   tears  were   wet    on   Heaven's  grey 

cheek. 
For  ah!    we  know  not  what  each  other  says, 

These  things  and  I;    in  sound  7  speak — 
Tlieir   sound    is    but    their    stir,    they    speak    by 

silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth; 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  o'  her  tenderness: 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirsting  mouth. 
Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase, 
With  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
And  past  those  noised  Feet 
A  Voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
"Lo!    naught  contents  thee,  who  content'st 
not  Me." 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke! 

My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from 

me, 

And  smitten  me  to  my  knee; 

I  am  defenceless  utterly. 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 
268 


And  pulled  my  life  upon  me;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun -starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist; 
Even    the    linked   fantasies,    in    whose    blossomy 

twist 

I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist, 
Are  yielding;    cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah!    is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount? 

Ah!    must — 

Designer  infinite! — - 
Ah!    must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst 

limn  with  it? 

My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust; 
And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount, 
Wherein  tear-drippirigs  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 

Such  is;    what  is  to  be? 

The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind  ? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds; 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity, 
269 


FRANCIS     THOMPSON 


Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
Round    the    half-glimpsed    turrets    slowly    wash 
again ; 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 
I  first  have  seen,  enwound 

With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yields 
Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest  fields 
Be  dunged  with  rotten  death? 
Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit; 
That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea: 
"And  is  thy  earth  so  marred 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard? 
Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  Me! 


"Strange,  piteous,  futile  thing! 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught"  (He 

said), 
"And  human   love  needs  human  meriting: 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee, 

Save  Me.  save  only  Me? 
270 


FRANCIS     THOMPSON 


All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home: 

Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come." 

Halts  by  me  that  footfall  : 

Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 
Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly  ? 

"Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 

I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest! 
Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,  who  dravest  Me!' 


\ 


IN   NO   STRANGE   LAND 
"The  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you" 

O  world  invisible,  we  view  thee, 
O  world  intangible,  we  touch  thee, 

O  world  unknowable,  we  know  thee, 
Inapprehensible,  we  clutch  thee! 

Does  the  fish  soar  to  find  the  ocean, 
The  eagle  plunge  to  find  the  air, 

That  we  ask  of  the  stars  in  motion 
If  they  have  rumour  of  thee  there? 
271 


LOUISE     IMOGEN     GUINEY 

Not  where  the  wheeling  systems   darken, 
And  our  benumbed  conceiving  soars; 

The  drift  of  pinions  would  we  hearken, 
Beats  at  our  own  clay-shuttered  doors. 

The  angels  keep  their  ancient  places; — 
Turn  but  a  stone,  and  start  a  wing! 

'Tis  ye,  'tis  your  estranged  faces, 

That  miss  the  many-splendoured  thing. 

But  (when  so  sad  thou  canst  not  sadder), 

Cry: — and  upon  thy  so  sore  loss 
Shall  shine  the  traffic  of  Jacob's  ladder 

Pitched  between  heaven  and  Charing  Cross. 

Yea,  in  the  night,  my  soul,  my  daughter, 
Cry, — clinging  heaven  by  the  hems; 

And  lo!    Christ  walking  on  the  water 
Not  of  Genesareth,  but  Thames. 


LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY 

THE   KINGS 

A  man  said  unto  his  Angel: 
"My  spirits  are  fallen  low, 

And  I  cannot  carry  this  battle: 
O,  brother,  where  might  I  go? 
272 


LOUISE     IMOGEN     GUINEY 

"The  terrible  kings  are  on  me 

With  spears  that  are  deadly  bright; 

Against  me  so  from  the  cradle 
Do  fate  and  my  fathers  fight." 

Then  said  to  the  man  his  Angel: 
"Thou  wavering,  witless  soul, 

Back  to  the  ranks!    What  matter 
To  win  or  to  lose  the  whole, — 

"As  judged  by  the  little  judges 
Who  hearken  not  well  nor  see? 

Not  thus,  by  the  outer  issue, 
The  Wise  shall  interpret  thee. 

"Thy  will  is  the  sovereign  measure 

And  only  event  of  things: 
The  puniest  heart,  defying, 

Were  stronger  than  all  these  kings. 

"Though  out  of  the  past  they  gather 
Mind's  Doubt  and  Bodily  Pain 

And  pallid  Thirst  of  the  Spirit 
That  is  kin  to  the  other  twain, 

"And  Grief,  in  a  cloud  of  banners 
And  ringleted  Vain  Desires, 

And  Vice,  with  the  spoils  upon  him 
Of  thee,  and  thy  beaten  sires, — 
273 


LOUISE     IMOGEN     GUINEY 

"While  Kings  of  eternal  evil 
Yet  darken  the  hills  about, 

Thy  part  is  with  broken  sabre 
To  rise  on  the  last  redoubt; 

"To  fear  not  sensible  failure, 
Nor  covet  the  game  at  all, 

But  fighting,  fighting,  fighting, 
Die,  driven  against  the  wall." 


DEO   OPTIMO   MAXIMO 

All  else  for  use,  One  only  for  desire; 
Thanksgiving  for  the  good,  but  thirst  for  Thee: 
Up  from  the  best,  whereof  no  man  need  tire, 
Impel  Thou  me. 

Delight  is  menace  if  Thou  brood  not  by, 
Power  a  quicksand,  Fame  a  gathering  jeer. 
Oft  as  the  morn  (though  none  of  earth  deny 
These  three  are  dear), 

Wash  me  of  them,  that  I  may  be  renewed, 
And  wander  free  amid  my  freeborn  joys: 
Oh,  close  my  hand  upon  Beatitude! 
Not  on  her  toys. 

274 


LIONEL    JOHNSON 


LIONEL  JOHNSON 

THE    PRECEPT   OF   SILENCE 

I  know  you:    solitary  griefs, 

Desolate  passions,  aching  hours! 

I  know  you:    tremulous  beliefs, 

Agonized  hopes,  and  ashen  flowers! 

The  winds  are  sometimes  sad  to  me; 

The  starry  spaces,  full  of  fear: 
Mine  is  the  sorrow  on  the  sea, 

And  mine  the  sigh  of  places  drear. 

Some  players  upon  plaintive  strings 
Publish  their  wistfulness  abroad: 

I  have  not  spoken  of  these  things, 
Save  to  one  man,  and  unto  God. 


MY   OWN   FATE 

Each  in  his  proper  gloom; 

Each  in  his  dark,  just  place: 
The  builders  of  their  doom 

Hide,  each  his  awful  face. 

Not  less  than  saints,  are  they 
Heirs  of  Eternity: 
275 


LIONEL    JOHNSON 


Perfect,  their  dreadful  way; 
A  deathless  company. 

Lost!    lost!    fallen  and  lost! 

With  fierce  wrath  ever  fresh: 
Each  suffers  in  the  ghost 

The  sorrows  of  the  flesh. 

O  miracle  of  sin! 

That  makes  itself  an  home, 
So  utter  black  within, 

Thither  Light  cannot  come! 

O  mighty  house  of  hate! 

Stablished  and  guarded  so, 
Love  cannot  pass  the  gate, 

Even  to  dull  its  woe! 

Now,  Christ  compassionate! 

Now,  bruise  me  with  thy  rod: 
Lest  I  be  mine  own  fate, 

And  kill  the  Love  of  God. 


A   BURDEN   OF   EASTER   VIGIL 

Awhile  meet  Doubt  and  Faith; 
For  either  sigheth  and  saith, 

That  He  is  dead 

To-day:    the  linen  cloths  cover  His  head, 
That  hath,  at  last,  whereon  to  rest;   a  rocky  bed. 
276 


A.   E. 

Come!    for  the  pangs  are  done, 
That  overcast  the  sun, 
So  bright  to-day! 

And  moved  the  Roman  soldier:   come  away! 
Hath  sorrow  more  to  weep?     Hath  pity  more  to 
say? 

Why  wilt  thou  linger  yet? 
Think  on  dark  Olivet; 

On  Calvary  stem: 

Think,  from  the  happy  birth  at  Bethlehem, 
To  this  last  woe  and  passion  at  Jerusalem! 

This  only  can  be  said: 
He  loved  us  all;    is  dead; 

May  rise  again. 

But  if  He  rise  not?     Over  the  far  main, 
The  sun  of  glory  falls  indeed:   the  stars  are  plain. 


A.  E. 
IMMORTALITY 

We  must  pass  like  smoke  or  live  within  the  spirit's 

fire; 
For  we  can  no  more  than  smoke  unto  the  flame 

return, 
If  our  thought  has  changed  to  dream,  our  will 

unto  desire. 

As  smoke  we  vanish  though  the  fire  may  burn. 
277 


A.  E. 

Lights  of  infinite  pity  star  the  grey  dusk  of  our 

days  : 
Surely  here  is  soul:   with   it  we  have  eternal 

breath : 

In  the  fire  of  love  we  live,  or  pass  by  many  ways, 
By  unnumbered  ways  of  dream  to  death. 


ANSWER 

The  warmth  of  life  is  quenched  with  bitter  frost; 

Upon  a  lonely  road  a  child  limps  by 

Skirting  the  frozen  pools:    our  way  is  lost: 

Our  hearts  sink  utterly. 

But  from  the  snow-patched  moorland  chill  and 

drear, 

Lifting  our  eyes  beyond  the  spired  height, 
With   white  -  fire  lips    apart    the   dawn    breathes 
clear 

Its  soundless  hymn  of  light. 

Out  of  the  vast  the  voice  of  one  replies 

Whose  words   are  clouds  and  stars  and  night 

and  day, 

When  for  the  light  the  anguished  spirit  cries 
Deep  in  its  house  of  clay. 
278 


A.   E. 


I  begin  through  the  grass  once  again  to  be  bound 

to  the  Lord; 
I  can  see,  through  a  face  that  has  faded,  the 

face  full  of  rest 
Of  the  Earth,  of  the  Mother,  my  heart  with  her 

heart  in  accord, 
As  I  lie  'mid  the  cool  green  tresses  that  mantle 

her  breast 
I  begin  with  the  grass  once  again  to  be  bound  to 

the  Lord. 


By  the  hand  of  a  child  I  am  led  to  the  throne  of 

the  King 
For  a  touch  that  now  fevers  me  not  is  forgotten 

and  far, 
And  His  infinite  sceptred  hands  that  sway  us  can 

bring 
Me  in  dreams  from  the  laugh  of  a  child  to  the 

song  of  a  star. 
On  the  laugh  of  a  child  I  am  borne  to  the  joy 

of  the  King. 


279 


PHILIP     HENRY     SAVAGE 


PHILIP  HENRY  SAVAGE 
INFINITY 

I  dare  not  think  that  Thou  art  by,  to  stand 
And  face  omnipotence  so   near  at  hand! 

When  I  consider  Thee,  how  must  I  shrink; 
How  must  I  say,  I  do  not  understand, 
I  dare  not  think! 

I  cannot  stand  before  the  thought  of  Thee, 
Infinite  Fulness  of   Eternity! 

So  close  that  all  the  outlines  of  the  land 
Are  lost, — in  the  inflowing  of  Thy  sea 
I  cannot  stand. 

I  think  of  Thee,  and  as  the  crystal  bowl 
Is  broken,  and  the  waters  of  the  soul 

Go  down  to  death  within  the  crystal  sea, 
I  faint  and  fail  when   (Thou  the  perfect  whole) 
I  think  of  Thee. 


ANNE  REEVE  ALDRICH 

DEATH   AT   DAYBREAK 

I  shall  go  out  when  the  light  comes  in — 
There  lie  my  cast-off  form  and  face; 

I  shall  pass  Dawn  on  her  way  to  earth, 

As  I  seek  for  a  path  through  space. 

280 


FREDERICK  HERBERT  TRENCH 

I  shall  go  out  when  the  light  comes  in; 

Would  I  might  take  one  ray  with  me! 
It  is  blackest  night  between  the  worlds, 

And  how  is  a  soul  to  see? 


FREDERICK  HERBERT  TRENCH 

A   CHARGE 

If  thou  hast  squander'd  years  to  grave  a  gem 
Commission 'd   by  thy  absent  Lord,  and  while 

'Tis  incomplete, 
Others  will  bribe  thy  needy  skill  to  them — 

Dismiss  them  to  the  street! 

Shouldst  thou  at  last  discover  Beauty's  grove, 
At  last  be  panting  on  the  fragrant  verge, 

But  in  the  track, 
Drunk  with  divine  possession,  thou  meet  Love — 

Turn,  at  her  bidding,  back. 

When  round  thy  ship  in  tempest  Hell  appears, 
And  every  spectre  mutters  up  more  dire 

To  snatch  control 

And  loose  to  madness  thy  deep-kennell'd  Fears — 
Then,  to  the  helm,  O  Soul! 
281 


FREDERICK  HERBERT  TRENCH 

Last:    if  upon  the  cold  green-mantling  sea 

Thou  cling,  alone  with  Truth,  to  the  last  spar, 

Both  castaway 
And  one  must  perish — let  it  not  be  he 

Whom  thou  art  sworn  to  obey! 


NOTES 


Page  i.  —  Mary  at  the  Cross.  The  spelling  of  the  original 
manuscript  was  unsuited  to  this  volume.  The 
text  as  it  is  given  here  was  taken  from  the  Percy 
Society  publications  and  amended  by  Dr.  George 
Macdonald's  version  in  "England's  Antiphon." 
Thole  =  bear;  byhet  =  foretold;  what  shal  me  to 
rede  =  what  counsel  shall  I  follow;  teres  werne  = 
turn  aside;  byswongen  =  lashed;  maiden  mon  = 
womankind;  mon  is  here  used  in  its  generic  sense; 
grede  =  cry;  of  sunnes  lisse  =  for  sin's  release. 

Page  4.  —  /  syke  when  I  sing.  To  be  found  in  the  publi- 
cations of  the  Percy  Society,  reprinted  with  in- 
teresting comment  in  "  England's  Antiphon."  For. 
fete  =  yield  up;  mete  =  suitably;  bo  =  both; 
ble  =  colour;  bio  =  pale;  lemmon  =  love;  wyke 
=  weep;  wood  —  mad. 

Page  7.  —  Winter  Song.  This  lyric  testifies  how  ancient  is 
the  poet's  sense  of  the  sorrow  of  mutability. 
From  time  immemorial  the  poets  have  grieved 
that,  "Now  hit  is  ant  now  hit  nys,"  and  "Alle 
we  shal  dye  thah  us  like  ylle."  The  poem  seems 
to  me  to  have  the  very  golden  cadence  of  the  per- 
fect lyric,  and  to  be  as  exquisite  in  its  way  as 
Shelley's  Mutability  or  Wordsworth's  "She  dwelt 
among  the  untrodden  ways."  Nys  is  a  delightful 
word  for  non-existent;  As  hit  ner  nere  ywys  =  as 
though  it  never  had  been. 
283 


NOTES 


Page  21.  —  Easter.     No.  68  of  the  Amoretti. 

Page  21. —  Time's  Gifts.  These  lines  were  written  by  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  in  prison  the  night  before  his  exe- 
cution. They  have  a  twofold  interest:  the  sum- 
ming up  of  the  gifts  of  time  as  earth  and  dust  by 
one  of  the  most  richly  endowed  natures,  one  of  the 
boldest  and  most  adventurous  spirits  of  the  robust 
English  Renaissance ;  and  the  expression  of  a  living 
trust  in  a  further  life  of  greater  compensations. 

Page  22.  —  Pilgrimage.  One  of  the  few  poems  in  this  volume 
I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  cutting. 

Page  23.  —  In  Desolation.  There  is  both  the  strength  and  the 
sweetness  of  resignation  in  this  poem.  It  ex- 
presses the  true  mystic's  sense  of  our  fragmentary 
human  outlook  and  uncertain  sense  of  values,  as 
well  as  his  willingness  to  forego  even  religious  peace 
if  desolation  be  the  basis  whence  solid  virtues 
spring.  The  lines  reminding  us  that  God  has  given 
us  nights  as  well  as  days,  and  that  grace  oftenest 
visits  us  clad  in  dusky  robes  are  of  surpassing  love- 
liness. The  whole  poem,  in  its  poignant  emotion 
and  beauty  of  expression,  is  comparable  to  The 
Collar,  by  George  Herbert. 

Page  28.  —  Sonnet.  Consciously  or  unconsciously  this  strik- 
ing first  line  must  have  inspired  Drummond's 
"O  leave  that  love  that  reaches  but  to  dust"  in 
Song  II. 

Page  32.  —  The  Waste  of  Shame.  The  sonnet  shows  profound 
insight  if  not  the  mystic  vision.  It  is,  at  any  rate, 
a  sincere  facing  of  facts,  and  to  face  facts  boldly 
and  react  upon  them  nobly  is  the  very  essence  of 
modern  religion. 

Page  32.  —  The  Remedy.  The  repetition  of  "My  sinful  earth" 
in  the  second  line  is  copied  from  the  original  edition 
of  the  sonnets,  although  it  is  undoubtedly  a 

284 


NOTES 


printer's  error.  It  is  tantalizing  that  while  we 
may  be  able  to  conjecture  what  song  the  syrens 
sang  we  can  never  supply  here  the  completion  of 
Shakespeare's  tragic  thought. 

Page  36.  —  John  Donne.  It  will  repay  any  one  interested  in 
religious  poetry  to  own  the  poems  of  John  Donne 
if  only  for  the  one  piece — The  Second  Anniversary 
from  the  Anatomy  of  the  World.  The  poet  is  repre- 
sented here  somewhat  inadequately,  for  he  plays 
as  important  a  part  as  Herbert,  Vaughan,  Crashaw, 
and  Traherne  in  our  most  conspicuous  group  of 
English  religious  poets. 

Page  40.  —  William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  is  one  of 
the  most  philosophical  and  mystical  of  the  poets 
of  this  century.  He  was  concerned  all  his  life  to 
effect  a  marriage  between  Christian  doctrine  and 
Neoplatonic  philosophy.  Canon  Beeching  speaks 
of  his  religious  poems  as  "more  picturesque  than 
devotional,"  but  this  judgment  can  only  be  ac- 
cepted by  those  who  feel  that  religion  is,  in  its 
essence,  at  odds  with  philosophy  instead  of  another 
face  of  the  same  shield.  Drummond  was  a  royalist 
and  a  churchman  through  all  the  disturbances  of 
the  Covenanters,  but  held  throughout  firmly  to  the 
philosopher's  temper  and  the  aristocrat's  freedom 
of  thought  and  utterance.  Without  being  a 
plagiarist  he  is  often  reminiscent  of  his  English 
forerunners,  while  many  of  his  sonnets  and  madri- 
gals are  mere  adaptations  from  Petrarch,  Marino, 
Tasso,  Guarini,  and  others. 

Page  50.  —  A  Divine  Rapture.     Several  stanzas  are  omitted. 

Page  53.  —  Easter.  There  are  two  distinct  versions  of  this 
poem.  I  have  culled  the  better  stanza  from  each. 

Page  53.  —  The  Collar.  Dr.  George  Macdonald  says  of  this 
poem:  "It  is  .  .  .  an  instance  of  wonderful  art 
in  construction,  all  the  force  of  the  germinal 

285 


NOTES 


thought  kept  in  reserve  to  burst  forth  at  the  last." 
It  is  a  beautiful  expression  of  an  experience  known 
to  all  who  have  lived  in  any  large  communion  that 
lifts  us  apart  from  and  beyond  ourselves. 

Page  59.  —  Man.  The  stately  habitations  of  this  poem  per- 
haps inspired  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's  best- 
known  stanza:  "Build  thee  more  stately  man- 
sions, O,  my  soul."  Stevenson,  too,  may  have  had 
it  in  mind  when  he  wrote: 

"My  body  that  my  dungeon  is 
And  yet  my  parks  and  palaces." 

That  the  poem  was  familiar  to  him  may  be  de- 
rived from  the  likeness  of  his  poem  on  A  Camp  to 
stanza  six. 

Page  64.  —  Urbs  Beata  Hierusalem.  The  extraordinary  pic- 
torial value  of  this  poem  and  its  quaint  and  glow- 
ing fancy  are  enhanced  by  the  romantic  tradition 
that  it  was  written  by  an  obscure  prisoner  in  the 
tower — one  Francis  Baker.  A  new  poignancy  is 
given  by  the  knowledge  of  the  writer's  immediate 
environment,  not  only  to  the  lovely  descriptions 
but  to  the  lines  in  which  he  mentions  those  things 
which  are  never  to  be  found  in  the  Holy  City.  The 
hymnals  and  anthologies  have  unanimously  con- 
curred in  omitting  the  most  interesting  and  charm- 
ing stanzas,  so  that  it  is  a  matter  of  difficulty  to 
come  at  a  complete  version.  I  have  followed  the 
most  authoritative  text  of  the  poem,  printed  at  the 
end  of  a  longer  poem,  entitled,  Mary,  the  Mother  of 
Christ,  1 60 1. 

Page  68.  —  Though  Late,  my  Heart.  From  Davison's  Poetical 
Rhapsody,  1602,  reprinted  by  N.  W.  Nichols,  1826, 
and  by  Bullen,  1870. 

Page  70.  —  The    Heart's    Chambers.     From    John     Danyel's 
"Songs  for  the  Lute,  Viol  and  Voice,"  about  1600. 
286 


NOTES 


Page  71.  —  A  Heavenlie  Visitor.  From  Bullen's  "More  Lyrics 
from  Elizabethan  Song-Books."  Reprinted  there 
from  a  Christ  Church  manuscript. 

Page  72.  —  Milton.  For  the  somewhat  fantastic  spelling  here, 
the  persistent  theorist  and  schoolmaster  in  Milton 
is  solely  accountable.  It  has,  however,  the  merit 
of  indicating  the  precise  scansion  and  cadence  of 
his  verse  so  long  misunderstood. 

Page  108. — Thomas  Traherne.  The  romantic  tale  of  the  dis- 
covery of  a  manuscript  book  of  Traherne's  poems 
by  Mr.  Bertram  Dobell,  after  they  had  lain  hid  for 
more  than  two  centuries,  is  now  too  well  known  to 
repeat.  For  those,  however,  who  are  unfamiliar 
with  Mr.  Dobell's  critical  introduction  to  the 
poems  it  may  be  interesting  to  point  out  how  re- 
markably Traherne  forecasts  Wordsworth's  Ode  on 
Some  Intimations  of  Immortality,  and  how  he  is 
often  like  in  form  as  well  as  in  blithe  acceptance  of 
man  and  the  world  to  our  own  Walt  Whitman. 

Page  108. — Wonder.  "The  corn  was  orient  and  immortal 
wheat,  which  never  should  be  reaped  nor  was  ever 
sown.  I  thought  it  had  stood  from  everlasting  to 
everlasting.  The  dust  and  stones  of  the  street 
were  as  precious  as  gold,  the  gates  were  at  first  the 
end  of  the  world.  The  green  trees  when  I  saw 
them  first  through  one  of  the  gates  transported 
and  ravished  me,  their  sweetness  and  unusual 
beauty  made  my  heart  to  leap  and  almost  mad 
with  ecstasy,  they  were  such  strange  and  won- 
derful things.  The  men!  O,  what  venerable 
and  reverend  creatures  did  the  aged  seem!  Im- 
mortal cherubims!  And  young  men  glittering 
and  sparkling  angels,  and  maids  strange,  seraphic 
pieces  of  life  and  beauty.  Boys  and  girls  tumbling 
in  the  streets  and  playing  were  moving  jewels. 
I  knew  not  that  they  were  born  or  should  die. 
But  all  things  abided  eternally  as  they  were  in 
their  proper  places.  Eternity  was  manifest  in  the 

287 


NOTES 


light  of  the  day  and  something  infinite  behind 
everything  appeared,  which  talked  with  my  ex- 
pectation and  moved  my  desire.  The  city  seemed 
to  stand  in  Eden  and  to  be  built  in  Heaven.  The 
streets  were  mine,  the  temple  was  mine,  the  people 
were  mine,  their  clothes  and  gold  and  silver  were 
mine,  as  much  as  their  sparkling  eyes,  fair  skins, 
and  ruddy  faces.  The  skies  were  mine  and  so 
were  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  and  all  the 
world  was  mine;  and  I  the  only  spectator  and 
enjoyer  of  it." — Centuries  of  Meditations.  By- 
Thomas  Traherne.  Century  II.,  H  3. 

Page  123. — The  soul  wherein  God  dwells.  I  first  ran  across 
this  little  poem  in  the  personal  note-book  of 
Miss  Irene  K.  Leache,  of  Virginia.  After  giving 
it  a  tentative  date,  diligent  search  failed  to  dis- 
cover the  authorship.  A  decade  and  a  half  later  I 
fell  quite  by  chance  upon  a  copy  of  the  "  Cheru- 
binischer  Wander smann,"  by  Johann  Scheffler,  that 
early  seventeenth-century  mystic  who  renounced 
a  high  place  at  court,  and,  under  the  name  of 
Angelus  Silesius,  wandered  through  the  country 
meditating,  exhorting,  and  earning  his  living  by 
the  sale  of  dice,  rosaries,  playing-cards,  and  prayer- 
books.  In  the  detached  quatrains  of  the  "  Cherubic 
Wanderer"  I  recognized  the  stanzas  of  this  little 
poem,  though  I  am  still  ignorant  as  to  who  com- 
bined these  particular  lines  or  made  the  translation. 

Page  125. — The  Keys  of  the  Gates.  This  poem  goes  with 
Blake's  striking  designs.  The  poem  and  the 
seventeen  beautiful  pictures  make,  as  Allan  Cun- 
ningham says,  "a  sort  of  devout  dream  equally 
wild  and  lovely."  Even  without  the  accompany- 
ing drawings  one  may  delight  in  the  mystic 
pantheism  of  the  poem. 

Page  149. — Thanatopsis.  The  entirely  conventional  and  hor- 
tatory tone  of  this  poem  makes  a  striking  and 
interesting  contrast  to  the  last  lines  of  Shelley's 

288 


NOTES 


Epilogue.  Conventional  and  soothing  exhorta- 
tions have  their  own  place  in  poetry.  Bryant 
reads  like  a  remnant  of  the  early  eighteenth  cen- 
tury while  Shelley  strikes  the  note  of  liberty,  re- 
volt, and  reconstruction  so  characteristic  of  the 
revolutionary  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  with 
its  touching  faith  in  the  perfectibility  of  man,  or  of 
the  nineteenth  century  with  its  bold  iconoclasm 
and  challenge  to  authority. 

Page  204. — The  Prisoner.     The  close  of  a  long  poem. 

Page  206. — The  Search.  "La  colombe  demande  un  petit  nid 
bien  clos;  le  cadavre  un  tombe;  1'ame  le  paradis." 

Page  215. — Rest.     Part  IV  of  Rest  in  "Organ  Songs." 

Page  216. — A  Christmas  Carol.  This  and  the  following  little 
song  seem  to  have  recaptured  something  of  the 
sweetness  and  simplicity  of  the  very  earliest  lyrics. 

Page  217. — That  Holy  Thing.  The  idea  that  the  birth  of  our 
Lord  made  a  woman  cry  is  against  all  tradition. 
The  Second  Eve,  being  free  from  the  stain  of 
original  sin,  is  supposed  to  have  brought  forth  her 
Son  without  travail  and  without  pain. 

Page  231. — Sleeping  at  Last.  These  were  the  poet's  last  lines, 
and  therefore  interesting  to  compare  with  Lord 
Tennyson's  Silent  Voices  and  the  Epilogue  of  Rob- 
ert Browning,  one  of  his  last  and  most  character- 
istic utterances. 

Page  260. — This  poem  is  said  to  be  by  R.  D.  Blackmore,  the 
author  of  Lorna  Doone,  although  he  never  ac- 
knowledged the  authorship. 

Page  261. — Prom  the  poem  entitled  "  To  H.  D.  Traill." 

Page  271. — In  No  Strange  Land.     In  the  "  Selected  Poems  "  of 
Francis  Thompson,  Mr.  Wilfred  Meynell  appends 
289 


NOTES 


the  following  note:  "This  poem  (found  among  his 
papers  when  he  died)  Francis  Thompson  might 
yet  have  worked  upon  to  remove,  here  a  defective 
rhyme,  there  an  unexpected  elision.  But  no  al- 
tered mind  would  he  have  brought  to  the  purport 
of  it;  and  the  prevision  of  'Heaven  in  Earth  and 
God  in  Man '  pervading  his  earlier  published  verse, 
we  find  here  accented  by  poignantly  local  and  per- 
sonal allusions.  For  in  these  triumphing  stanzas 
we  hold  in  retrospect,  as  did  he,  those  days  and 
nights  of  human  dereliction  he  spent  beside 
London's  river,  and  in  the  shadow  —  but  all  ra- 
diance to  him — of  Charing  Cross." 

The  acute  accent,  to  mark  a  sounded  syllable,  used  necessarily 
in  the  early  English  poetry,  has  been  retained  throughout  in  the 
interests  of  uniformity.  Certain  idiosyncrasies  of  capitalization 
and  spelling  in  the  later  poets  were  retained  out  of  respect  for 
individual  preference. 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 

PAGE 

A  man  said  unto  his  Angel 272 

Abowt  the  fyld  thei  pyped  full  right 9 

Ah,  God,  alas 212 

All  are  not  taken;   there  are  left  behind 171 

All  else  for  use.  One   only  for  desire 274 

As  fair  ideas  from  the  sky 113 

As  I  came  by  the  way 14 

As  I  in  hoary  Winter's  night  stood  shivering  in  the  snowe  29 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time     .     .     .  175 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  come  away 82 

Awhile  meet  Doubt  and  Faith 276 

Babe  Jesus  lay  in  Mary's  lap 216 

Behind  him  lay  the  great  Azores 243 

Behold  a  sely,  tender  Babe 30 

Brave  flowers — that  I  could  gallant  it  like  you       ...  47 

By  day  she  woos  me,  soft,  exceeding  fair 230 

Can  I  see  another's  woe 131 

Chanting  the  square  deific,  out  of  the  One  advancing,  out 

of  the  sides 195 

Christ  keep  us  all,  as  He  well  can 12 

Come,  lovely  and  soothing  Death 192 

Creator  Spirit,  by  Whose  aid 106 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days 158 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee     .  37 

Death  is  here  and  death  is  there 147 

Deer  God,  If  Thy  smart  Rod 42 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way 229 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears 40 

291 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 

PAGB 

Each  in  his  proper  gloom 275 

Elected  Silence,  sing  to  me 251 

Even  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust 21 

Ev'n  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks 50 

Fair  maiden,  who  is  this  bairn 1 1 

False  world,  thou  ly'st :   thou  canst  not  lend      ....  48 

Far  have  I  clamb'red  in  my  mind 88 

"Father  to  me  Thou  art,  and  Mother  dear"       ....  144 

Fear  death — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat 174 

Foil'd  by  our  fellowmen,  depress'd,  outworn    ....  210 

For  giving  me  desire 116 

From  above  us  and  from  under 249 

From  child  to  youth;   from  youth  to  arduous  man    .     .  227 

From  twig  to  twig  the  spider  weaves 222 

Full  of  rebellion,  I  would  die 63 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  Quiet 22 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song    .     .     .  163 

Go,  Soul,  the  body's  guest 23 

God,  if  this  were  enough 255 

God  Who  created  me 263 

Grow  old  along  with  me 176 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 94 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand 46 

Kevins,  distil  your  balmy  shouris 18 

Hierusalem,  my  happy  home 64 

Hold  not  thy  life  too  dear  because  of  death 257 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 35 

How  like  an  Angel  came  I  down 108 

How  long,  great  God,  how  long  must  I 121 

I  am  that  which  began 232 

I  begin  through  the  grass  once  again  to  be  bound  to  the 

Lord 279 

I  cannot  reach  it;   and  my  striving  eye 91 

I  dare  not  think  that  thou  art  by,  to  stand 280 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days     .     .     .  264 

I  give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string 127 

I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  thy  way 53 

292 


INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES 

PAGE 

I  had  my  birth  where  stars  were  born 246 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 133 

I  know  you:  solitary  griefs 275 

I  said  "I  will  find  God,"  and  forth  I  went 248 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night 97 

I  say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat       .     .     .  ' 159 

I  shall  go  out  when  the  light  comes  in 280 

I  sing  of  a  maiden 10 

I  struck  the  board  and  cry'd  "No  more S3 

I  syke  when  I  sing 4 

I  wait  and  watch:  before  my  eyes 167 

I  walk'd  the  other  day,  to  spend  my  hour 102 

I  was  angry  with  my  friend 130 

If  I  could  shut  the  gate  against  my  thoughts     ....  70 

If  only  once  the  chariot  of  the  morn 161 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays 157 

If  thou  could 'st  empty  all  thy  self  of  self 232 

If  thou  hast  squander'd  years  to  grave  a  gem    ....  281 

If  with  such  passing  beauty,  choice  delights 41 

In  Spring  the  green  leaves  shoot 206 

In  strenuous  hope  I  wrought 215 

In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim 260 

In  the  houre  of  my  distresse 43 

In  what  torne  ship  soever  I  embark 38 

Is  this  a  Fast,  to  keep 46 

It  was  the  Winter  wilde 72 

Jesu,  Lord,  that  madist  me .  16 

Last  night  returning  from  my  twilight  walk 220 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust   ....  28 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee 128 

Long  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of  man    ...  207 

Look  in  my  face;    my  name  is  Might-have-been    ...  227 

Lord,  in  my  silence  how  do  I  despise 62 

Love  bade  me  welcome;   yet  my  soul  drew  back     ...  57 

Men  the  Angels  eyed 2:8 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  lyfe,  that  on  this  day si 

Mutual  Forgiveness  of  each  Vice 125 

My  God,  I  heard  this  day 59 

293 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

My  God,  I  love  the  world igo 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 132 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes .     .     .     .  211 

My  soul  doth  pant  towards  Thee 81 

My  soul,  sit  thou  a  patient  looker  on 48 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country 93 

My  spirit  longeth  for  thee 124 

No  coward  soul  is  mine 202 

No  sudden  thing  of  glory  and  fear 258 

Not  Thou  from  us,  O  Lord,  but  we 160 

O  God,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but  truth 244. 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 200 

O  Thou,  Who  sweetly  bend 'st  my  stubborn  will     ...  26 

O,  world  invisible,  we  view  thee 271 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 172 

Of  on  that  is  so  fayr  and  bright 7 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifir  uprose 220 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me 254 

Passing  away,  saith  the  world,  passing  away               .     .  228 

Poore  soule,  the  center  of  my  sinfull  earth    ...  32 

Rorate  cceli  desuper 1 8 

Seek  no  more  abroad,  say  I go 

Sleeping  at  last,  the  trouble  and  tumult  over    .     .     .     .  231 

Soul,  which  to  hell  wast  thrall 40 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God 134 

Still,  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doomed  to  wear  .     .  204 

Stond  well,  mother,  under  rood i 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love        163 

Sunset  and  evening  star 166 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King 58 

That  childish  thoughts  such  Joys  inspire 1 1 1 

The  bliss  of  other  men  is  my  delight i  ig 

The  Catterpiller  on  the  Leaf 125 

The  day  is  over 187 

Thfr  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame    .     .     .     .     ,  32 

294 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day 226 

The  man  of  life  upright 34 

The  senses  loving  Earth  or  well  or  ill 219 

The    soul  wherein  God  dwells 123 

The  Sphinx  is  drowsy 152 

The  warmth  of  life  is  quenched  with  bitter  frost  .     .     .     .  278 

The  world  is  charged  with  the  grandeur  of  God  .     .     .     .  252 

Thee,  God,  I  come  from,  to  Thee  go 250 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove  and  stream.     .  136 

They  all  were  looking  for  a  king 217 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light 104 

This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm      .     .     .     .  148 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign 169 

This  night  there  is  a  child  born 13 

Thou  art  the  Way 259 

Thou,  who  dost  dwell  alone 208 

Though  late,  my  heart,  yet  turn  at  last 68 

Though  to  the  vilest  things  beneath  the  moon  ....  200 

Thought  of  the  Infinite — the  All 194 

Through  that  pure  virgin  shrine ...  95 

Through  Thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of  old     .     .          .     .     .  168 

Throw  away  Thy  rod ...  56 

'Tis  but  a  foyl  at  best,  and  that's  the  most    .          ...  52 

'Tis  from  those  moods  in  which  Life  stands 261 

Tis  of  the  Father  Hilary 224 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 149 

Too  long  I  follow'd  have  my  fond  desire 41 

'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 206 

Tyger!  Tyger!   burning  bright 129 

View  me,  Lord,  a  work  of  Thine 33 

We  must  pass  like  smoke  or  live  within  the  spirit's  fire    .  277 

Weep  not  to-day:   why  should  this  sadness  be    .     .     .     .  253 

Weighing  the  steadfastness  and  state 100 

Well-meaning  readers!    you  that  come  as  friends    ...  84 

What  God  gives,  and  what  we  take 45 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell 225 

What  need  have  I  to  fear — so  soon  to  die  ? 245 

What  power  is  this  ?     What  witchery  wins  my  feet    .     .  242 

When  God  at  first  made  man 55 

295 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

When  the  dumb  hour,  clothed  in  black 165 

When  the  enemy  is  near  thee 199 

When  we  have  thrown  off  this  old  suit 221 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 254 

Who  dwelleth  in  that  secret  place 215 

Who  feels  not,  when  the  Spring  once  more 185 

Why  wilt  Thou  chide 260 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun 36 

Wynter  wakeneth  at  my  care 7 

Yet  if  His  Majesty  our  sovereign  lord    ......  7 1 


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